


We were lovers in a past life

by ThePiningTrees



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Angst and Humor, Canon-Typical Violence, Crack, Discussions of mental illness, Falling In Love, Feels good to finally put that tag there, Hurt/Comfort, Kaer Morhen is a farm, M/M, Mystery, Mystery surrounds the bard, ON HIETUS, Or Is It?, Pining, Protective!Geralt, Roommates, Slow Burn, Temporary Amnesia, The title is a song title, Time Travel, or is he just extra
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:28:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 34,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23363221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePiningTrees/pseuds/ThePiningTrees
Summary: In which Jaskier the humble bard allegedly pisses off the wrong person and is sent through the spheres to Modern era Geralt, who is studying plant biology and has roommates.
Relationships: Angoulême/Maria Barring | Milva/Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach, Chireadan/Lambert, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 80
Kudos: 179





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> You know how it is, what times we live in. I needed light angst and a protective Geralt. Let me know in the comments what you think and so forth. I’m Thepiningtrees on Tumblr if you want to stop by there.

There are calculated risks with allocating your free reading hours to the campus greens. Geralt doesn’t have to look up to sense the obsequious smile from one of his roommates and know his plans of solitude has been spoiled for the remainder of the afternoon. Chireadan, a med student who moved into the house recently, spreads an empty tote bag on the grass before sitting down gingerly.

“I figured I’d find you here. Mind if I join?” He seems compulsively chary most of the time, but for some reason he’s decided to befriend Geralt. Scratch that. Geralt knows the reason. He just wishes he didn’t. 

The weeping fig Geralt’s resting against rustles its leaves in condolence. “I haven’t talked to Yenna,” he says curtly, and turns the page in his textbook. Ever since Chireadan connected the dots he’s been insufferable—and not subtle.

Chireadan opens his mouth to protest as usual but he’s interrupted by the unmistakable sound of some other, unknown idiot currently out of sight aggressively dry-heaving in the nearby bushes.

“Oh gods,” a voice is muttering through the foliage, “At least the most important appendage is still in place.” A short, dramatic pause. “Oh… Oh gods no please no,” and then there’s the shuffling of someone rising to his feet and stumbling across the lawn. “Good people! Good people, twattling over there, yes—you’ll do. Has anyone of you seen my lute?”

His voice is loud, annoying, and piqued with horror, but not particularly alarming on a university campus where practical jokes are not unheard of. And not enough piqued with horror to stop Geralt from low-key enjoying the continuation of the weirdly worded accusations flying through the air, as the man seems to direct his shouts towards the sky. 

When the yelling dies down Geralt returns his attention to the page of the book he’s reading on plant molecular biology. The tinted lenses of his glasses are filtering the sunlight, enough to show him the printed text without obscuring or blurring. The tint almost gives the calming experience that he’s reading from an historically ancient book—perhaps the Systema Naturae.

Inquiries in a more tentative tone from the stranger’s mouth floats in the periphery of his mind, the new tang of vulnerability threatening to break through and claim center stage.

“Hello? Pardon me my earlier slip of etiquette, my lord. I may be considered bereft. Do you mind telling me the name of this castle…convent…town?” 

”A university, you say?” The voice rises in volume as the man’s distress worsens. “How delightful, and how utterly, I dare say how _utterly_ perceptive of the _fucking_ _clod_ who sent me here. Very funny, very clever indeed. _Now send be back!”_

Normally Geralt is successful in blocking out all the auditory stimuli when he reads—much as he’s doing to Chireadan now.

”Sounds like he’s not from here. Obviously the victim of a prank. Do you think he needs help?”

Chireadan has his text books on anatomy out but his attention have been stolen by their latest distraction. He probably won’t let it go until he has tried and failed to engage Geralt in some form of small-talk, considering it the quota filled for the day. Or the distraction vanishes—what then? Geralt lowers the book and looks towards the source of the disturbance.

It’s impossible to not notice the Disturbance in the throngs of the other students on the lawn. Most seem to take wide berths to avoid him, shaking their heads and laugh when he throws questions after them. Geralt is briefly stunned by the sight of the guy: he’s a peacock among hens, there’s no better way to describe him and the effect he has on Geralt’s attention. Sunlight welters in the intricately woven, gold shimmering jacket tied snuggly around a lithe waist; the tailoring giving his shoulders a proud square width. The pants are oddly loose but somehow flattering. The pant legs disappear down a pair of high-shafted boots tied all the way up to his knees. A huge, black feather on top of the man’s… beret?... bobs and puffs in his face as he paces in increasingly more manic circles, muttering about his displaced lute.

Geralt swallows as the strange man plucks the beret from his head, evidently growing too hot and bothered in the sun, and pinches the skin between his eyes hard in the universal sign of dejection. He can hear the dramatic groan all the way to his study spot. He should… go there and help him out? How? Give him directions to the bus stop; pay for his fare? Find his damn instrument?

It’s not what he planned to spend his afternoon on. Geralt has never been a social extrovert; content with the fact that his three childhood friends remain his only friends. He has spent four years avoiding students, parties and popular events, and he’s not keen to stop now; not for the sake of a theatre geek who’s had one too many to drink last night.

”He’ll sober up in half an hour. Or he’s live performing Shakespeare and I don’t want to be a part in that madness.” He shudders at the thought.

”LARP:ing, it’s called. Which I’ve never participated in, myself... You’re probably right,” Chireadan agrees with a nervous laugh.

They make an unspoken decision to return to their books.

***

Geralt’s place of residence is a house on Yaruga street which he shares with four other tenants. Chireadan and Regis are both med students and hardly there at all; he hasn’t hung out with Regis once, not since Regis started his residency. Cahir he personally doesn’t like, but Milva usually accompanies him on his work-outs and she’s one of the most straight-forward, no nonsense person he has ever met.

When Geralt parks his bike on the driveway (pretending he isn’t aware of Chireadan awkwardly sliding off the back) he knows at least Regis or Cahir is home because the blinds to the living-room window are shut. Either Regis is sleeping off a shift on the couch or Cahir is elbow-deep in a WoW game and using the large screen.

Rarely both.

He walks through the house and goes through his usual coming-home routines, quickly and with not much thought so he can step out in the backyard and tend to his own pet project: The greenhouse.

Here, once he has watered the tomatoes and talked shop with the orchids, he sits down in lotus position and lets the stress from the day drain from his shoulders.

***

Geralt doesn’t see the theater geek the next day.

Chireadan continues to refer to him as the LARP:er throughout the rest of the week. “He was cute,” he tells their friends in the living-room, while they are eating Geralt’s questionable attempt to bake a Chicago deep dish. Vultures. “If he hadn’t upchucked all over his shoes.”

“I thought you had your heart and dick set on Yennefer,” Milva says before biting off the better part of her slice. “This is one of your top 10, Gerry.”

“It’s a basic recipe.”

“Learn to take a compliment.” She elbows him in the side.

Their play-fighting saves Chireadan from responding to the Vengerberg accusations, which everyone knows are true and has grown tired of.

  
The medic blushes and looks meaningfully at Geralt. “At least I don’t keep looking for him.”

Lies, all lies. It’s not like Geralt is walking between classes intentionally _looking_ for a flash of gold, or a head of thick, disheveled hair. That would be… an exaggeration. If he ever crosses path with the guy again it will be entirely due to coincidence.

***

There’s a small stream running in the campus park, no more than a trickle in a ditch when September comes but during spring students are able to overtake it with kayaks and nets. And other barely buoyant objects such as inflatable flamingos and beer cans. This stream and it’s muddy bank is what pops up in Geralt’s mind when he sees the golden-clad idiot in line to the beverage station in one of the campus cafés.

He’s less of a golden vision now, but the effect is even more off-setting due to proximity. The peacock’s feathers are very much ruffled, colors muted; the fabric on his knees and ass are caked with dried mud, the once shiny hair a veritable bird’s nest of twigs and tangles. Geralt can smell him from here: sweat and musk, bad morning breath. He’s standing in a cloud of despair, and haggling with the barista about starting a tab. Code for Give me free food, he supposes.

“I told you yesterday. We don’t accept credit here,” the barista says, less sympathetic than she’d probably been the day before.

“But yesterday…oh, _me_ darling _feainewedd_ ,” the man offers up a smile so bright and endearing Geralt doesn’t understand why she isn’t instantly emptying her cash register, shoving a sandwich into the grill and offering a back-rub while they wait, “Yesterday I gave you my last copper, don’t you recall, sweet _blath_?”

“I do recall. I remember you throwing a coin at my chest and asking for a beer. _Freak_ ,” she adds.

The man’s smiling countenance wavers, but doesn’t fall. “Well, I wasn’t going to say anything but I was thoroughly disappointed,” he says, “You served me a beverage not even fit for a pig.”

“If you don’t like our coffee then go somewhere else.”

“Listen.” The guy props his elbow on the counter, and several costumers back in the line groan. “I’ll sing two nights in a row for a loaf of bread and a bowl of your commonest stew. I don’t even need my lute.” The jacket, draped over his other arm, slips forgotten to the floor when he gesticulates. “I’ll liven up your guests with my catchy rhymes and enthrall them with my wide register. I’ll sing the praises of this tavern—even though the service is _shit_.”

Geralt rolls his eyes. So close, he thought.

The barista snorts. “Step out of the line, please.”

“I’m quite celebrated in certain, more _civilized_ parts of the continent... How can you stand there and say no to a bard who’s earned the praises of lords and kings?”

“Stop holding up the line or I’m calling security.”

“Perhaps I shall speak to the innkeeper.”

He’s drawing attention, and no longer of the good kind. Geralt reaches out instinctively and touches the man’s shoulder. He hasn’t figured out what to say, not yet, and the glowing murder in the guy’s bright blue eyes warns him to choose his words carefully. 

“Hands off.” The stranger nimbly shakes off his hand, apparently too worked up to notice the crowd he’s drawn. He curses under his breath and seems to have reached a decision on his own. “Oh, you drive a hard bargain, barmaid.”

He reaches down and unlaces the top of his left boot.

“ _What_ did you call me?”

“My last resort, my saving for a rainy day. I cannot believe it has come to this,” he continues and there’s a knife resting in his hand, a sharp edge glinting in the florescent lights.

The barista inhales before she bellows: “He’s got a knife! Call security!”

Geralt is aware that the rest of the line disappears through the doors behind his back, along with the barista and the rest of the staff. He wonders if he would’ve done the same if it hadn’t been for the memory of the first time he saw the man make a fool out of himself, or if his brain can’t compute this doofus with a sick act of violence. He watches as the stranger sits his ass down on the floor and starts tugging off his boot. He sticks it between his knees and, tongue sticking out in concentration, puts the knife’s edge to the rim where the sole is knitted to the leather.

He looks up with a grimace. “Where did they all go?” He’s still cutting through his boot.

“Where did they all go? You pull a knife and you ask me why everyone ran?”

The guy looks genuinely confused before he shrugs it off. “The local customs here evade common sense.”

A wiggle with his finger and a coin is pushed out of the hidden confines of his boot. The guy holds it up in the light and inspects it. “My last doubloon. I don’t suppose you have change for one of these?”

Geralt can see the crowd gathering outside the exit. “Now is a good time to drop the method acting. They’ll have you arrested.”

The sight of the mob does give the stranger a frightful pause. “I feel I’m out of my cultural depth, to be honest. Everywhere I go people are either mad at me for giving them useless coin or laugh at me until I leave. I haven’t eaten in three days. I’m a bard, not a jester, but I’ll seriously consider it if that means they will throw bread at me…” He sighs woefully, knife and boot abandoned on the ground.

“You.” He gestures vaguely in Geralt’s direction. “Handsome, rugged slave in what I assume is a cloth normally used to sift flour. You should leave before this turns ugly.”

Geralt looks down at the offending item. It’s a mottled-grey tee with the university crest on the chest. “It’s a t-shirt.”

“Don’t know what that is, I’m afraid.”

The campus security is probably not more than thirty seconds from reaching the café, or they’re dragging their feet outside. Geralt shifts, caught between different routes of action. He never was one to blindly choose authority over individual needs.

“Can I see your knife?”

***

Both of them are banned for life from the café. Geralt doesn’t stay long enough to be told, but it’s safe to assume. Even though word stands against word and no one ever found a knife on the stranger’s person when frisking him, he wouldn’t take the risk of returning and suffer the barista’s wrath, or put her through another stressful ordeal. He walks swiftly towards his Triumph when the campus security is done with their questioning, the stranger hot on his heels.

“Where are we going?”

He’s surprisingly—annoyingly—chipper for someone who moments ago was a hair’s berth away from serving jail time.

“I don’t know where you’re going. I’m going home,” Geralt states. Enough is enough.

“You know they will arrest me, right?” Jaskier says. His name is Jaskier, or so he claimed. He failed to produce a valid ID as well as proof that he was an enrolled student. “I managed to escape when the henchman put in charge of me went to the loo. I heard them say they were waiting for the police to take me away? I don’t know what that is, but it sounded horrid and ominous and I sing like a bird when tortured, so I left.”

“They’ll probably give you a psych evaluation and go from there.”

“I don’t know what that is either,” Jaskier says, out of breath now when he’s followed Geralt across the parking lot, “But I’m not stupid. Geralt, I know I’m in a shitload of trouble if they catch me so, please, let me come with you? Just for the night. I’ll be on my way in the morning.”

He should drive Jaskier to the hospital, he really should. Nobody is that committed to his craft. Nobody stays in character when they realize their actions have real life consequences. Nobody, except people who are clinically insane.

Geralt quietly confers with his bike, a rebuilt cafe racer which he and Lambert spent most of their summer job earnings, countless of hours and a lot of elbow-grease on perfecting. The parking lot is mostly empty by now and the sky bleeds as the sun is setting. There’s two medical professionals-in-training back home: Chireadan and Regis, who are in the middle of his residency and should’ve done a rotation on the psych ward by now. He will know what to do, and if Geralt is over-reacting. This is the unorthodox but humane way to shuffle a mentally ill person to the hospital, he convinces himself, even though there’s one selfish part of him that still burns to know what Jaskier’s deal is. What happened to him; why he didn’t leave the campus grounds, why he chose to sleep in a ditch for three nights straight with no ID on him and no one reporting him missing. Geralt can always claim he didn’t know Jaskier hadn’t been given permission to leave the campus security office.

He hands the silver-painted helmet over—ignoring his foster dad’s warnings in his head—and shows Jaskier how to swing his leg over the saddle. Jaskier brings the helmet to his face but doesn’t put it on. He frowns and looks around. “Where’s the horse?”

They leave ten minutes of arguing later, after Geralt has convinced Jaskier to put on his jacket in case he falls off at high speed and wear the damn helmet. Geralt had to listen to himself utter the sentence “It’s a machine… horse. A machine horse, alright? It will work.”

Jaskier holds on to Geralt’s waist for dear life and screams in his ear all the way home.

***

Despite its inhabitants often despicable habits when they think they are alone (looking at you, Cahir and Milva), the living-room in the house on Yaruga is were Geralt migrates when he’s feeling lonely or unsettled. He feels a familiar, bone-deep calm settle when he steps over the threshold and its not caused by the interior design.

Milva is currently cooped up in the terra-cotta red sofa, wrapped in a zebra-striped comforter and watching Nat Geo on her laptop. Geralt could theoretically drop a dad joke and tell her ’I see you’, but he has standards and more importantly it will earn him a kick in solar plexus. He directs Jaskier to sit in the other end of the couch. Milva pauses the documentary and looks from Jaskier to Geralt and back.

”Who’s your friend, Geralt?” She pokes her big-toe into Jaskier’s hip.

”Watch him will you.” Geralt knows that’s not what you say; you don’t pawn off a grown man to your unsuspecting roommate, but he has reached some kind of limit during the seconds Jaskier sat down, wary and very much physically present in his home. 

It’s not a cowardly retreat to the kitchen—it’s a tactical one.

”Ow!” He hears Jaskier pitifully whine. He must have pissed off Milva somehow. Which must be a new house guest record.

Geralt returns with two bottles of water.

”Here,” he gives one bottle to Jaskier, who’s sitting in the armchair now.

”He called me a prostitute,” Milva mutters. Her laptop is on the coffee table and she’s regarding Jaskier suspiciously.

”Oh, do not look at me that way. I asked her if she was your betrothed and she said no. Then I very politely asked her…the other thing, and hurt her feelings.” Jaskier turns the water-bottle in his hand. ”Is this ice? Why doesn’t it hurt my fingers? And it weighs close to nothing?”

Geralt sits down on the coffee table in front of him, unscrews the bottle and gives it back. “Drink,” he encourages. 

”Aha,” Jaskier says cheerfully, and takes a sip. Once he’s taken one his thirst takes over and he gulps the whole bottle down in one go. Geralt evaluates his own thirst, then hands over his own water. 

“Thank you.” Jaskier chugs and finishes by wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist. “What else have you got back there? My kingdom for a plate of Boeuf Bourguignon.”

Geralt thinks it over. He usually cooks something from scratch for dinner, but they missed the usual dinner time. He doubts Milva and Chireadan have the skills to cook something edible, with leftovers, and if Cahir was cooking he’d have smelled the fish by now. “There’s cold pizza. You can eat it while I cook something else.”

“Actually,” Milva confesses with a grimace, “We ate all the pizza.”

“Milva,” he sighs.

She holds up a finger. “Op! Here’s a suggestion. Just because my sense of smell shriveled up and rests in a permanent fetus position since I moved in with boys, doesn’t mean I don’t have limits. This boy stinks.” She turns to Jaskier. “You can shower while your booty-call cooks for you, how’s that?”

“He’s not… he’s not my booty-call,” Geralt corrects.

“You tell yourself what you want.”

“No. He’s not.” Geralt needs her to understand how despicable of a being he would be if he took advantage of the situation like that. “He has nowhere else to go tonight, and I think he’s hit his head or… he’s not alright. Regis has to look him over.”

Milva’s eyes dart to Jaskier, who is examining the plastic bottle from all angles. “Oh.”

“I hit my head…?” Jaskier asks, looking between them. “I guess I did, earlier, but that was nothing.”

Geralt blanches. ”You did?”

Jaskier nods. ”Before I threw up.” 

Geralt rises and stomps over to the hallway leading down to his friend’s room. ”I’m getting Regis.”

Milva crushes that plan of action. “Regis works the night shift tonight. Which is unfortunate but means we have a spare bed if he stays over. Also, I think he’s messing with you,” she says with a meaningful look at Jaskier’s hidden smirk. 

  
Geralt doesn’t know what to make of _that_. He’s starting to believe Jaskier’s is kind of an asshole in disguise. 

“He’s no closer to convincing me he doesn’t have brain damage. Where’s Chireadan?”

“He’s in his room.”

Geralt hasn’t noticed he’s been pacing until he stops. There’s really no more options left if Chireadan can’t determine what’s wrong with the guy. “We’ll have to take him to the hospital. It should be safe.”

“If there’s a medical emergency, yeah. He can be internally bleeding out as we speak. Wait... What?” It’s in moments like these Milva wishes she never left her small town and moved in with men. Less drama. Less secrecy.

Geralt gives her a blank look that she suspects he has practiced in front of the mirror. “What?”

Jaskier drops the bottle. “Yeah, I don’t know what you two are concocting but I’m starving. I won’t go anywhere until I’ve had some food. And a bath. The trollop over there made a valid point.”

“I’ll shear your balls off,” Milva warns, no real heat behind her threat.

Geralt ends up turning the shower on with the shower-head mounted on the wall thing. He regulates the temperature and water pressure, and magnanimously agrees to call the shower ‘a bath’ before leaving Jaskier in the bathroom.

Milva puts Regis’ bedclothes in the laundry and remakes the bed with fresh sheets.

“Give him some clothes to wear,” she suggests when she joins Geralt in the kitchen. He’s cooking spaghetti.

“He said he didn’t like my t-shirt.”

“Did he really say that?” Milva gnaws on a pilfered slice of red paprika.

“He _implied_ it,” Geralt defends. “He’s a jerk.”

“A brain-damaged jerk,” Milva reminds him, which makes him feel ashamed for half a second. “Right up your alley.”

“Shut up.”

They rescue Jaskier from accidently drowning in the bathroom. Then they wrestle Chireadan out of his room and explain as much as Geralt is able to explain, which is very unsatisfying seeing as he doesn’t know much.

In the middle of the sofa there’s Jaskier, pretending he’s not listening. He’s dressed in one of Geralt’s sleep shirts and has a towel-turban wrapped around his wet hair; shoveling pasta into his mouth and wondering when the fuck this elaborate illusion will end.

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boys, being dramatic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My fancast of Regis if you choose to accept it: Yusuf who’s that horseman Famine in Good Omens. I just think they share the same suave vibe. 
> 
> Also thank you guys who read the first chapter with the weird grammar mistakes and still said you enjoyed it :)

The living-room transforms into a doctor’s office when Chireadan collects his big boy first aid kit and sits down on the coffee-table facing Jaskier, similar to the position Geralt had chosen earlier. Geralt stand at an idle impasse behind Chireadan’s back for a moment, but decides the physician constricts his view of the patient. The others aren’t much better. Cahir has emerged from whatever rat-infested crypt he crawled out of (his bedroom) and awkwardly skirts the small group until Milva relents and provides him with backstory. Together they jostle the pair of red armchairs as close to the coffee table as physically possible; Geralt occupies the one to the left while Cahir offers the other to Milva and slouches over her backrest. All three gawkers lean forward and peer in Jaskier’s face whenever Chireadan does. 

“Have you been feeling disoriented?” the young medic starts off with, his bedside manners polite albeit a bit unpracticed.

“Very,” Jaskier agrees with emphasis and follows the finger Chireadan moves along his field of vision.

“Have you experienced any headaches in the last days? Migraines?”

“How kind of you to ask. Something tells me you haven’t gone more than a day without consuming any decent food and drink. I’m on the brink of death, thank you.”

“Noted. Have you been unconscious or experienced laps in time, for short moments or longer?”

Jaskier has to take a moment to think. “Um, no,” he says, but the conviction is not there. His gaze flickers in Geralt’s direction. “I think I’m of sound mind, but it seems to be an unpopular opinion around here.”

Chireadan leans forward and looks closely at his pupils, and Geralt cringes instinctively. He recalls too clearly his own countless trips to the optician. He thinks he was featured in a medical journal at one point when he was four. “Flashlight,” Chireadan requests, and Geralt rolls his eyes and places the flashlight from the first aid kit in his friend’s palm.

Chireadan shines the light in Jaskier’s eyes and causes him to flinch back. His turban-wrapped towel loosens from its nest and glides down to his shoulders.

“It’s fine—it’s better if you take this off now so I can look for contusions,” Chireadan instructs and helps Jaskier rid himself of the towel. Jaskier’s hair is in a silky-moist state and smells of a fruity shampoo (borrowed from Milva’s bathroom shelf? Odd, when he could’ve used the plethora of neutral products to his disposal). Chireadan makes Jaskier tilt his head down and turn in different angles. Chireadan cards his fingers gently through his abundance of hair looking for a wound that’s not there. The tousled results and the tiny sighs Jaskier releases when Chireadan’s nails scrape his scalp are details of absolutely no medical importance, and therefore Geralt shouldn’t be as distracted as he is. He’s of no help here.

“No sign of physical trauma. I’m going to take you through a series of questions now.” He looks to the peanut gallery, who are practically pressed against his shoulders. “Can you at least pretend to give us some privacy?”

“Don’t forget to ask him what happened,” Milva says and is dragged up from the chair by Cahir’s helping hand.

“What do you mean?” Jaskier asks, looking up at her.

“I…” Milva says, confused. “I assumed something happened? You got evicted, or your dorm unanimously voted to throw you out? Are you bipolar and off your meds because if you are its better to tell us right off the bat. It’s alright with us—this is a judgment-free, educated household,” she gestures at the living-room at large.

“And as fine examples go, I believe you, mylady,” Jaskier says, uncertain, “but…”

Geralt can’t help but regard Jaskier closely as the other man searches for an answer. Jaskier spreads his hands on the sofa cushions as if to lend support—or to bolt. He looks like he just realizes he’s trapped.

“I don’t know how…” he hesitates. “I assure you I would tell you all about my predicament if I thought it would benefit you to know, but on closer inspection,” Jaskier decides, with another nervous flicker at Geralt, “My answer to all remaining question is No. I thank you for your hospitality.”

He crawls out of the sofa and falls over the living-room carpet.

“Destiny’s been unreasonably unfair to me as of late,” he says to Geralt, who’s looking down at him (literally and figuratively).

“You’re probably not wrong,” Geralt admits.

“Is this some terrible never before recorded effect of fisstech? Am I drugged? Am I one of those little floaty statues that’s actually a shrunken human?”

“The situation does call for something stronger than water,” Milva muses.

“Why a shrunken human?” Cahir wants to know.

Jaskier looks earnest at him. “For lighter transportation, I always assumed.”

Cahir nods and pretends he’s still participating in a sane discussion. “Huh.”

A sleep-deprived Geralt gives in and shaves at 06:03 in the morning. _It’s your own damn fault_ he chastises himself as he slowly drags the razor along his cheek and looks himself square in the eye in the mirror. No one else brought a cast member from _One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest_ into the house. Where his roommates live, sleep and keep their valuables. They are no closer to solving the human mystery that is Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Laughably transparent fake names what the fuck was the man’s thought process.

He spent a sleepless hour between 2 and 3 AM google-searching ‘Cintra’ and other randomly used terms used by an increasingly intoxicated Jaskier as the damn fool counter-acted every question with spewing more nonsense. Geralt was on to him though: He suspected Jaskier was acting considerably more drunk than he was, for dramatic effect and to collect maximum sympathy. While everyone else got tipsy on beer Jaskier raided Cahir’s shelf (where the grown-up bottles lives) and solo drank a bottle of red, complaining every step of the way how the wine tasted like water with a pair of crushed grapes thrown in for laughs.

He paced the living room orating and working himself up while Geralt, Milva and Cahir lounged on the sofa.

‘You _don’t_ believe I was born Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount of Lettenhove; you _haven’t_ heard of the Five Kingdoms, and you _couldn’t_ find your own arses even if I drew you a map, you pribbling fools. Where am I, have I been tossed back to my inbred brethren of Kerack?’ He took a swing of the wine bottle. ‘Why you can’t brew a decent fucking beverage, I can’t for the life of me—"

‘Oh, he’s good,’ Milva remarked tiredly, helping herself to a fistful of popcorn she’d somehow had the equanimity to microwave.

‘He’s got stamina,’ Geralt agreed, sticking his hand down in the bag.

‘Make sense; most of those Shakespearean plays go on for hours,’ Cahir pointed out.

‘Hours? Feels like it’s been years,’ Milva said holding up a hand, and they high-fived sloppily.

Jaskier stalked right up to the sofa and pointed dramatically down at Geralt. ‘And you! I’d expected better from you. You don’t think I will ask, don’t you? You don’t think I’d see all of—' he gestures all over Geralt’s frame, ‘—and not propound a certain mutually beneficial arrangement? You’re _mad!_ ’’

"Meaning?" 

“Dude. He wants to pro _pound_ you,” Milva said and offered her high-five. Geralt, like a gentleman, didn’t leave her hanging.

Chireadan looked emotionally overwhelmed where he sat huddling in the armchair nursing a margarita, and Jaskier was breathing heavily, so Geralt decided to break it up. He does remember something Chireadan said though, before he went to bed—doctor’s orders, in fact.

Geralt leaves the bathroom and creeps down the hallway to Regis’ bedroom door for the, what’s the count, fourth time in four hours. He’s not proud of himself, but he knows himself well enough to know he’s not above using dirty tricks if the opponent does the same.

He doesn’t knock, for the others’ sake. This torture is Jaskier’s and Jaskier’s alone.

 _“Jaskier?”_ Geralt tries to turn down the volume of his natural gruff voice from baritone to bass, _“….Jaskier, are you awake?”_

Warm dawning light seeps through the lower case of the window, where the blinds haven’t been properly closed. There's a knocked-out dedicated cosplayer sprawled on the bed, softly snoring with drool on his chin. Jaskier looks far from threatening in his unconscious state; with the soft rendering of light and shadow over his relaxed face, and it’s no stretch to think Jaskier attractive. On second thought, Geralt’s socks are still on his feet. Geralt stands there for thirty seconds, fighting his morals. It’s a shitty thing to do: to repeatedly wake someone up but as long as Jaskier refuses to drop the act Geralt will continue to wear him down. And besides, what if Chireadan was right and Jaskier did slip into a coma while he was asleep? Geralt was doing the man a favor, possibly saving his life.

 _“Hey.”_ Geralt sits down on the bed and hovers for another moment before he gently shakes Jaskier’s slack shoulder. He’s an ass, but he’s not rough. _“Jaskier. Are you dead?”_

He earns but a quiet ‘uh’ in response and waits with bated breath. For what, he isn’t sure. A sign of life. Then, another minute in, Jaskier groans and flails an arm.

“Ugh… go back to the shadows, bloody hym,” Jaskier grouses into his pillow. “At least let me sleep till I’m dead.”

To arrange a check-in schedule was voted overzealous and unnecessary, derived from Chireadan’s desire to practice good medicine despite knowing close to nothing about what a GP does, and being embarrassingly out of his depth. Not that Geralt isn’t above abusing those recommendations when faced with a ruddy-faced Jaskier glowering daggers from the burrow of his pillow.

“You brought this on yourself, remember?” Geralt reminds him just to rub it in. “You did say you hit your head.”

Jaskier stares at him dumbly before he registers the gloat Geralt hasn’t bothered to hide.

“Ugh! Are you really daft or outright malicious? Fuck off...”

Geralt doesn’t have to think it over for long. "Outright malicious."

He’s confident that he could let Jaskier sleep in and he’d be fine—it would be more beneficial for his health, according to the internet accessed on Geralt’s phone when he woke up with a start at 2 AM…but who was he to question a med student’s medical assessment and advice… and source criticism, you couldn’t be too careful. It had been very hard not to listen in on noises on the other side of the wall, where Jaskier was sleeping soundly in borrowed sheets and borrowed clothes. To refrain from shaking the guy awake and demand answers, although they’d collectively agreed to postpone the interrogation till morning.

“What’s a hym?”

“Do you know something, Geralt?” Jaskier grudgingly sits up to lean on his elbows and serves the most judging look Geralt has ever received, and he has received plenty over the years. “I hate you so much, I don’t think I had the displeasure of hating someone this much in quite a long time.”

Geralt hums. And waits.

Jaskier sighs and consults the room with an exasperate gaze. He gets no sympathy there. “A hym I believe is a demon of the night, capable of slowly sucking out your will to live. If inflicted, you’ll basically… I wouldn’t wish such a fate on my worst enemy, lets leave it at that.”

“How do you know those things?” 

“Oh. Well. You pick up a thing or two when you’re on the road. I’m a bard, as you know. You wouldn’t doubt my legitimacy if I had my instrument. …I sing you a song if you like,” he adds amiably, albeit not without the shrewd glint in his eyes.

“I never doubted your musical talent, just your honesty.”

“A sentence every artist worth his salt secretly yearns to hear. I’m touched.”

Geralt frowns. “You’re don’t care who has to suffer the consequences of your artistical project?”

“You misconstrue me, _me bleidd_ ,” Jaskier smiles and scoots back until his knees are tucked to his chest and Geralt has room to lean on the wall. “I’m just trying to survive. I thought you understood, being a Witcher and all. Sit, we’ll talk.”

“What did you call me?”

“What? _Me bleidd_ , it’s Elder speech for…”

“No. You called me a _witch_.” Geralt sighs irritably. “What the hell?”

Jaskier regards him for a moment. “How did I know your nature, you mean?”

He leans forward, warily at first, then with an oh well shrug he places a palm gently over Geralt’s cheek and caresses. Apparently the contrast of Geralt’s cleanly-shaven, slightly stinging skin and Jaskier’s surprisingly warm fingers are enough to make them both draw a breath that is a bit heavier than usual. Geralt feels his lashes brush against one of Jaskier’s fingers as it goes on an intimate excursion over his brow. The air he drew stubbornly stays pushed down in his lungs; he’s stunned, not because of the touch as much as how Jaskier’s staring unblinkingly (and affectionately?) back at him. 

“It’s—It’s a genetic eye-decease,” Geralt admits with a sudden flash of shame going over him. “Same gene as my albinism.”

He’s been wearing tinted lenses in his black frames since junior high to conceal the fact that the pigment in his irises are far from amber, and his pupils shrink to slits at random, mostly when he’s anxious or angry and in bright daylight. He doesn’t wear his glasses around the house these days since the other tenants have habituated to the sight of him. They don’t gasp or ask stupid questions like the general public tend to do, aka. the rest of the student population.

“I don’t care what ye naked eye-decease is, your eyes are ethereal. It’s how I recognized you for who you were,” Jaskier says, and he’s smiling broadly like he’s just won a price. “I’ve found myself a Witcher.”

Geralt firmly removes Jaskier's hand. He regrets having left the glasses on the shelf in his room.

“Don't make fun of me.” He’s been called a lot of mean things over the years, but _witch_ might be a new low. Adding a medieval taunt to the list seems surplus. “And I’d appreciate if you'd speak normally when you talk to me.”

Jaskier gives a barely there nod, growing unsure. “I will… try to speak the way you want,” he relents and leans back. He looks down. “You haven’t let go of my hand.”

Geralt lets go of his hand. 

***

Geralt heads for the kitchen to brew himself some strong, much needed coffee.

Loyal to his Saturday morning routine he opens the kitchen door ajar to let in the fresh morning air. He sits down with his elbows firmly resting on the round table-top so the coffee mug doesn’t wobble. The uneven legs and resulting wiggle have fused seamlessly with the rest of the household’s collective consciousness. Every meal someone unofficially takes it upon themselves to be in charge of the table’s centre of gravity. No questions asked, not a stray thought of maybe move it out to the garage to fix it.

The walnut wood has been sandpapered, varnished and is wiped down daily but insists on bearing deep-seated traces of its former owners—and there’s quite a few dents adolescent Geralt has put there himself. He bought it in a yard sale at the side of the road. It was Vesemir who drove them there, Geralt and the other three foster-placed kids who lived on the farm.

'I can’t afford to support all four of you,' the old man had said when fifteen-year-old Renfri pretended to have an allergic reaction to an old dusty wingchair.

‘College won’t be cheap, so you better get creative. And for god’s sake, _Geralt_ , make sure you bargain for the price before you pay for the damn thing.’

’College is a fraud. I’m not going so there’s that—problem solved,’ Renfri said with a wink and shoved Geralt’s shoulder. ‘Feel free to roam.’

Geralt pulls himself back to the present. Thoughts on Renfri hasn’t bothered him for a long while but he knows the pattern: a small, insignificant detail sets it off, the chain-reaction a fact despite no obvious connection to the sister who never got to grow up. Geralt checks the last of the coffee and finds it lukewarm. He swallows it down and goes to hand-wash it in the sink, paying attention to every angle he holds the cup and the sound of the water rushing from the tap. He decides to go for a morning run and then do a tray of his special oven-baked sandwiches stuffed with herbs from the garden (he calls it his Simon & Garfunkel special) for breakfast. It’s Saturday after all.

***

Regis is home from his night-shift when Geralt returns from his run. The medic's lank 6’ foot body confidently reclines in the chair across from Jaskier’s by the table. He calmly regards the new addition to the household population from the brim of his tea, looking like he’s patiently indulging in Jaskier’s undulating chatter. Cahir is sitting close to Jaskier, arms almost touching as they both lean over an oddly massacred stack of pancakes on a plate which seems to hold some special, magic significance. Jaskier holds the utensils in a tight grip and is starting to look as pissed off as he did last night. Great.

“So would our city be located on this map?” The blonde asks skeptically. "Where?"

“Yes! Of course, somewhere I’m certain of it,” Jaskier says and studders as his proverbial house of cards starts to fall apart. Literally – Cahir is nicking pieces of the laid-out pancake-map and popping them into his mouth. “From what you’ve described I bet your region is nestled somewhere here, along the coast…” he runs his finger down a nagged edge near the plate’s rim. He falls quiet when he sees its landmass is now non-existent thanks to Cahir’s sneaky advancements.

“Cut it out.” Geralt moves Cahir’s wrist. With a bit too much force, judging by Cahir’s hiss.

Regis rarely judges (oh, he does—most people just don’t realize that he did until long afterwards), but the smug look he throws Geralt is not hard to read.

“I found this man sleeping in my bed,” Regis says, pleasant as always.

“Yeah? Don’t know how he got there,” Geralt answers matter-of-fact and goes to inspect the remains of the pancake batter. The bowl is empty, of course. “I assume you feed him before Cahir decided to antagonize him.”

Regis scoffs. “It’s not my stray to feed,” he says, amused, and the underhanded comment is spot-on. There have been recurrent instances of animal-rescuing over the years, including one memorable, very long year when an orphaned macaw was their temporary house guest. It shat all over the place and mimicked Geralt’s expletives with an uncannily fast learning curve until he found someone willing to adopt it despite its personality flaws.

“This is nothing like Field Marshal Windbag,” Geralt defends and turns on the stove. The items he needs for a new batch is still on the counter.

“Field Marshal who?” Jaskier pipes up.

“Yeah, yeah, Cahir filled me in.” Regis sighs.

Geralt has barely looked at Jaskier. He wants to ask Regis about what they have managed to talk about before Cahir went Cahir, and if Regis has reached some kind of professional conclusion, but not when Jaskier is present and listening.

He makes himself preoccupied instead. Geralt does most of the cooking so he likes to think he has some prerogative in the kitchen, but he’s not a tyrant—he won’t complain and bitch if one of the others decides to put on some grown-up pants and actually cook something that wasn’t straight from the box. Geralt likes the sandy tiles on the wall above the counter, it’s enough space to line up his ingredients, and last but not least he can doggedly take refuge there, pretending to be engrossed with the measuring of flour. Come to think of it, he might have had traces of flour on his shirt yesterday, when Jaskier remarked he looked like a slave in burlap.

Geralt scoffs and reflexively pushes his black frames further up his nose… and discovers they aren’t there. Right. He tenses when the scraping of a chair announces that Regis is done with breakfast, which in his case means he’s done with his snack before bed.

“I’m heading off to bed. Alone,” the medic states, then lowers in voice in confidence. “He’s fine.”

“He’s not _fine,"_ Geralt mutters. "He’s pretending he’s from the medieval ages. You consider his behavior normal?” He cringes when he hears the sentence out loud. 

Regis sounds unaffected as usual. “What do you want me to do about it? I’m not a history scholar. What’s your theory?”

“Fuck if I know.”

Regis chuckles. “I have to say, that’s quite close to my clinical conclusion.”

“Fine. We don't need you,” Geralt snaps. He collects the orange juice from the fridge and sets it on the table, where Jaskier and Cahir are cowering.

Jaskier’s still wearing Geralt’s old t-shirt with the flaccid collar and holes in the front from too many run-ins with the washing-machine. He repeatedly chips his thumbnail against the rim of his tea-mug and looks, to the teeth, like any other ordinary college student out there; like a theater geek who took the guest lecture on method acting to the extreme and is now realizing the error of his ways. Jaskier and Cahir look like they’ve been out partying and are now hung-over and gossiping about their night.

Geralt sits down and rests his fist heavily on the table-top, making sure the tilt forces Jaskier to sit up straighter. Jaskier’s gaze falls on him, and Geralt has a split second of _maybe_ before he opens his mouth and ruins it for himself.

“It’s morning, Jaskier. You’ve got your bed for the night. I covered for you although I’m starting to question why. You’re acting like you have no good reason for keeping up this charade except for your own entertainment.”

Cahir, who’s helped himself to the juice, coughs discreetly in his sleeve. The shame crossing Jaskier’s face feels like another personal failure on _Geralt’s_ part. “I told you. You didn’t want to hear it.”

“No, I told you to not weave me into your…your weave of crazy.”

“Geralt,” Regis admonishes gently.

Geralt doesn’t miss the flash of calculation in Jaskier’s eyes; betraying the thought process running through his mind. He’s still deceiving; calculating how much he can get away with. “Witcher. If you don’t want to help then point me in the direction of a decent sorcerer. You and I will have no more dealings with each other. I just want to get back to Cintra.”

“Cintra,” Regis echoes, and looks at Jaskier’s breakfast altas.

“Cintra,” Jaskier repeats although subdued, “A kingdom of domes and turrets, ruled by the Queen Calanthe of savage grandeur. I fear I must have travelled very far for you not to know of the Lioness of Cintra.”

Geralt sighs. "We've heard this speech already. Repeatedly." 

“No!” Jaskier stands up abruptly, chair screeching. “No, I won't hear it. I’ve been… it’s been _days_ , I’ve _exhausted_ myself pleading to strangers on the damned street, I—” he splutters, color rising to his forehead. “I bid you to fa—to piss the fuck off!”

They let him leave the table; storm out through the kitchen door in his socks, everyone too affected by the depressing turn of the conversation to stop him.

Regis disappears to sleep for the rest of the day. Geralt and Cahir are left in an uncomfortable silence until Milva staggers over the threshold. She hums and stretches her back.

Clearly she’s in a great mood, having slept for nearly ten hours. “’Sup, morning people. What did I miss?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bard versus cars. And sandals.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, wow. I rewrote the eye-touching scene because I wasn’t feeling it the first time. I was like: Put hand here. Do not check English grammar. Again, thank you for putting up with the unedited version of this story. If you got theories, throw them at me :)

“Bleh.”

Jaskier presses his hand to his mouth; and to his nose because what is that? Such an unpleasant stench, a greasy miasma clinging to his nose-hairs, like burnt fat. A rumbling herd of large creatures pass him by, dragons going by their speed, ginormous beetles going by their shells hard and gleaming in the sun, in short: monsters from the abyss. Jaskier has found them, the creatures of which he sings, the latest gruesome manifestation of the monsters lurking at the outskirts of every village and town. He never thought he see the day he’d be standing here by his lonesome, taking them on head on (pissing his pants).

They are not attacking at the moment, the bouldering creatures. They flash by in tight queues, four queues to be precise, and behave as though he has escaped their notice, too insignificant and scrawny to fill their bellies. Probably not very appetizing to look at, either. Jaskier pulls at his borrowed rags, scared and indecisive. He does recognize the beasts from his wild ride on the Witcher’s not-a-horse. Maybe these beasts aren’t beasts at all, but… wagons?

The horseless wagons seem to blindly follow along a low steel fence running down the middle, splitting the queues and it goes on forever. Jaskier looks to the blue sky ahead and spots a steeple in the distance. He decides that’s where he’s headed, border be damned. He needs a serene temple with a slanting roof and a wrinkly old celibate—no. He could use a quick boot of sympathy and a be so generous as to accept a calming balm for his battered feet—Then the directions to a good brothel, where he’s sure he will find the proper guidance (whores are bound to know what’s worth knowing, he’s discovered). He prays the good abbot will know where to find the most devoted practitioners of Melitele, the Goddess of life-bearing loins.

***

The Yaruga street isn’t adjacent to a ravine or gorge as its name suggested but a small, inconspicuous woodland area, predominantly pine, but also alder, oak and birch. Geralt had refrained from gentrifying the backyard—kept the trees and takes extra care with the old gnarly apple trees, which in old age enrich the soil where the strawberries grow. The uneducated guest might assume that the garden is in a state of chaotic overgrowth, but it is in fact a very organized chaos. Geralt is continuously figuring out the optimal arrangement of vegetables to plant in each bed to avoid competition and it follows a tight rotation system. He harvests zucchini, carrots and salad, and looks the other way when Cahir puts mood-lights in the trees (He knows what Cahir hopes to achieve with those lights).

Chireadan has been lobbying for the construction of a ‘Hobbit portal’ or was it a Stargate, in replacement for a regular gate. Geralt has been flicking through a couple of designs online but haven’t gotten around to building one. Now he stares out the kitchen window finding the garden deserted and the back gate ajar. Jaskier’s gone. The question is: Does he really want him to come back? 

***

Jaskier sits on the low steel fence in the middle of the chaos. He might begin to consider himself stranded there since, first of all: he’ll lose an arm or his head if he even thinks of crossing the busy path of the beasts-wagons again, and second of all: he’s too afraid to even remove his gaze from the steel bar. He gently pats his immobile steed and wonders if he’d be even half as downtrodden if he had his lute at his disposal. How needlessly cruel Destiny continues to be ever since he was discarded on foreign soil. Not only displacing the bard geographically but sidling him with a gaggle of the town’s halfwits, lead by an immature Witcher stripling.

He isn’t fit to be out here. He’s got no frickin shoes, no doublet to harness his body temperature when dusk comes, but he wouldn’t have felt so naked if he had the lute strapped to his back. 

The ghost memory of Her—his lute—in his tender embrace has him bemoaning his loss out loud. A love lost, oh, the lyrics are coming to him unbidden, timidly asking to be set to music. He sits on the steel partition and sings, brokenly.

“For you, my lungs were pulled asunder,” He holds a hand longingly in the air and recalls the cold nights with his instrument tightly pressed to his chest, setting the aches and pains to music like rousing an wild animal out of its lair, “With you, I’m stronger, but I’m no longer…” he sneezes as an eight-wheeler sends a cloud of dust and pebbles raining down over him. He wipes his nose and coughs, “filled with wonder— _Aargh!_ ”

The Witcher is standing by the roadside.

Jaskier peers around. Milva has taken position as sentinel further down the road. She looks positively ashen; terrified of being eaten by these beasts no doubt. Jaskier slowly, very reluctantly move his gaze back to Geralt.

Geralt stands where gravel and dust have gathered in a thin line dividing the safe tufts of grass from the well-swept road conquered by the wagons. Jaskier can now see, from his new interesting perspective, how the violation of that sacred boundary might have been a mistake. Geralt’s body-language reminds him of the vengeful Lichen, the forest spirit that obliterate trespassing humans with its vicious antlers. Yet the clothes of the licentious Witcher (so, so _anllad,_ isn’t he _aware?_ ) are reminiscent of underwear—the underwear a rich knight wears under his armor but in child size; expensive fabric that stretches tight over chest and thighs. It looks like pulverized onyx pigment has been brushed on, not much else, and Jaskier's gaze does not stray — now is not the time to admire the male form, no matter how blatantly on display.

(Besides, Jaskier already looked his fill in the kitchen. Not his fault that Geralt stood with his back turned for so long wearing _that_ while his body cooled from whatever strenuous Witcher training he’d been doing outside. The shoulders’ imposing width, the gouged back with the inverted curve down… Jaskier had heard of undefeatable, strong Witchers but that bottom could snap a man’s _neck_. Which, _which!_ was barely covered by a gleaming fabric stopping mid-thigh. The whores of Novigrad wore thicker layers than this daring Witcher.)

Jaskier blushes and raises his hand in greeting, “Hello, Geralt. Have you seen all these beasts? Quite remarkable creatures, don’t you agree?”

“Cars.”

“Carts,” Jaskier repeats, obligingly. “That’s what I thought.”

Geralt lowers his head and looks up at Jaskier under his brow as if that would scare him (it does). When he speaks it’s through gritted teeth, to compliment the tic in his jaw and the opening and closing fists by his sides. His speech is low but slices straight through the beastly discordant noises. “Jaskier…are you okay with coming over here, or do you want me to come to you?”

Hm. Not what Jaskier had expected, the Witcher sounding almost civil and reasonable.

He decides it’s condescending. He is not a coddled knave who sings of battles he’s too chicken to witness in person. (He is. He’d rather take the forest filled with pisse-mires than this shit.) Is that it though, is that the petty reason as to why someone decided to toss him through a portal? Teach the squeamish bard a lesson. Well, he’ll show them. 

He waves a hand dismissively. “Do not pamper me, Geralt, I’m well—”

“You want me to leave? Because I can leave if you want,” The young Witcher steps down in the ditch.

“—and truly aware, _No!_ ” Jaskier wants to hurl himself across the expanse and throttle the stupid Witcher, can’t he see what a predicament Jaskier’s in, the prick, “By the Gods, don’t leave me here! I’ll never survive by myself!”

“Step out of the road,” Geralt warns, as another beastie thunders by and Jaskier’s toes are having a too close brush with death. He hadn’t even realized he left the fence.

“By Melitele’s fat thighs, what shall I do if you leave?” Another cloud of dust settles like a film on Jaskier’s lashes and lip as a truck thunders by, and the ground _shakes_. Jaskier gasps and throws his arms tightly around himself (he’ll fucking never take his hands out of his armpits again, those are his _livelihood!)_.

“I won’t.” Geralt returns his gaze, eyes sparkling with mirth. “Just, look before you cross. Stop looking like you’re chasing butterflies.”

The teasing is mild considering, and it’s quite a thrill to see all of Geralt’s attention honed in on him like this. Jaskier is feeling the Bravery return, to square his shoulders and lift his chin. He can do this—he can cross a road. He scowls at the point where the road disappears downhill, where the huge creatures seem to appear as out of the blue. One moment they are over there—then they are rushing past him. He doesn’t understand them but he thinks he can figure out how to… yeah, there’s a brief moment of silence now, and a wagon is yet to appear. Geralt reaches out a hand, offering it to him in encouragement, “It’s clear now.”

“I’m…” Jaskier hesitates. He looks back at the end of the road and gulps down the lump in his throat. Something large is coming; charging in his direct any moment now, he can feel it in the soles of his sock-clad feet.

“Jaskier,” The Witcher hesitates, as if he’s deliberating with himself what to do.

Milva shouts from her position further up the road: “It’s okay, you can go now!”

Jaskier shakes head. “I’m quite content over here, actually.”

The Witcher licks his lips in an inept attempt to hide a smile. “What if I came over to you?” He asks again, “I’ll help you.”

“You would like that wouldn’t you.”

Jaskier takes a small step forward. Then another. And another. He chuckles in relief as he realizes he doesn’t need no Witcher after all. “I’m doing it, see! In your face, critics of Jaskier, the triumphant!” He spreads his arms.

“Jaskier,” Milva shouts. “Car!”

He hears the roar, paralyzing him where he stands. _Butterflies and bosoms_ , he decides on his final words, eyes squeezed shut. The screeching of the foul beastie (cart) fills his ears, forcing his eyes to open and register several details in quick succession: Geralt throwing his arm out to the side, palm facing the beast, and slows it down considerably (but how!), then the Witcher launches his long legs across the expanse, grabs Jaskier mid-pirouette and hurls them both towards the side of the road.

Jaskier braces his hands on his knees. He’s a bit shaky. And also delighted. “That was a Sign, wasn’t it?”

Geralt rolls his eyes. “A sign that you’ve never crossed a road before? Yes.” He herds the bard back into the woods.

***

“Can I share a theory with you?” Jaskier asks as they are reclining in the moss. The group has relocated to a copse of pine and scattered rocks further in, where the noise of the road no longer takes centerstage. He recognizes the calls of the birds hiding in the canopies high above, chirping and copulating, as life ought to be.

It’s a bright sunny day. The branches cast intricate shadows over Jaskier’s rescue party of three, who sit in a circle sharing a thermos of cow-piss (coffee). Cahir was supposed to catch up with them well before they reached the road, but he honestly felt the brewing of coffee demanded his attention and then he got side-tracked by the sight of wildlife (a squirrel) and a sudden calling to document it all on his Instagram.

Geralt calmly unties the strings of a little dainty bag and pulls out what looks like when a pair of average sandals has had intercourse with a slab of half cured meat (a pair of red rubber slippers).

Geralt hmm:s, encouraging the bard to continue.

“The night when I got here I noticed something amiss, and it has been haunting me ever since,” he begins, ignoring the sudden intensity with which Geralt is regarding his bare feet. Feet which are now free to wriggle in the breeze, and receive sweet, sweet relief from the pine-riddled, soaked and blackened socks Geralt had carefully peeled off (which is why Jaskier is lying down in the moss).

Geralt snaps his head up to look at him, curiosity bleeding through the awkward glasses that has returned to balance on his nose. Jaskier burns to pluck them off, but it’s not his place. Besides, he’s prioritizing his own hang-ups right now. 

He has to avert his gaze from the Witcher’s and block out the serenity of the forest as he recalls the restricting dusk of the castle that night, retracing his steps. “I entered the bedchamber, put my lute down… then I fell through the mirror behind the armoire.”

A bloodless crime; a faceless culprit. Only… Not that it matters to his current predicament, but hadn’t there also been a shadow, in the periphery of his eye, looming? Hadn’t he been just about to turn and greet the man who had propositioned him to rendezvous in one of these fancy chambers? Jaskier hadn’t had his, uhm, hogshead pierced by a man in forever and was quite disappointed at first to see the room empty. He’d been wondering whether he’d entered the wrong room (the directions given had been a bit difficult to follow, admittedly. He had chosen the wrong corridors, interrupted a man riding another man below the crupper and tried a few locks before he reached this one), when he sensed the presence of the other, stumbled over a footstool, and fell... and fell.

To oblivion.

“A poet’s worst nightmare,” he clarifies. “Very existential.”

His rescuers stares at him agape, some hiding their blush.

Jaskier continues. “I admit I’ve never been that concerned with details, but this I cannot disregard. I’m afraid someone, some jaundiced scoundrel hid in the shadows and saw me fall through the portal… and did nothing! Who could it be, a jealous competitor? I bet a scorned lover. It usually is the case. Either a sorcerer, sorceress or a royal with an adviser doing the dirty deeds for them.”

“Usually is the case?” Geralt repeats, hoarsely, and quickly clears his throat. His gaze runs down Jaskier’s frame. “ _You_ get laid?”

“Bah.” Jaskier scoffs and nips at the shirt covering his belly, where he can feel the Witcher’s gaze returning, hot coal on skin. “These are _your_ rags, may I remind you. You should see me entertain.” He shudders as Geralt runs two large fingers down his calf and locks his hand, strong and calloused, around Jaskier’s heel. “What are you, _ew_ what are doing with those?”

Geralt is trying to fit one of those horrid sandals onto his foot! Jaskier yanks his limb back, to no avail. “Do you expect me to wear those jerky bandages on my feet? I’ve got standards, Geralt. A reputation!”

Geralt releases his foot. “Do you want to walk home barefoot?”

Jaskier sulks. “No. I want you to go back and fetch me a horse. Is that too much of an inconvenience for you, strong, fast Witcher?” It probably is, but he can request, can’t he. Cahir snorts.

The Witcher, blushing, glares at Cahir. Milva is wise to cover her mouth with her hand. Geralt stands up and offers his hand. “At least try them on,” he suggests, voice sweet and reasonable again, “couldn’t hurt.”

Geralt doesn’t expect Jaskier to slip his hand in so gently, and with no hesitation like he’s been waiting for the offer. Jaskier squeezes, and Geralt hurries to yank him up to standing. “Ow.” Jaskier grabs his arm and hisses dramatically as his scratched and swollen soles come in contact with the detritus.

The rubber sandals are graciously put down in front of the cripple. Geralt goes down on one knee after some short deliberation. They will be in the woods all day if he doesn’t help Jaskier put them on.

“You brought these to me? Why?” Jaskier wonders and grabs Geralt’s scalp for purchase.

"Because I possess a basic amount of common sense.” Geralt coaxes Jaskier’s right foot from the ground.

Jaskier regards the brightly red rubber with a face of disgust. He sways against the tree he’d been resting by, letting Geralt put his shoes on with the understated patience of a parent.

“They are technically Chireadan’s, so don’t ruin them. Come on.” Geralt steps back, but Jaskier holds on to his shoulder, leaning on him for support. He sighs like he’s about to faint and leans his cheek on Geralt’s collar bone. Geralt huffs. “You’re such a baby.”

“My feet are positively riddled with thorns, Witcher!”

“Don’t spit in my ear, Cosplayer. Try walking.”

“You can walk, dumbass,” Milva says encouragingly (She’s not ready to be a mother).

"I’d be so fortuned to walk regularly by next _savaed_ …oh." Jaskier presses his bare foot down on the cushiony sole. "Yes, I see… uhm, I might have been too quick to judge these nasty _esgids."_ He weighs to and fro, testing the springiness of the rubber. "Mm, yes, oh this is quite _fwynach_."

Geralt couldn’t say he minded when Jaskier spoke in that foreign language, whispering so close to his ear.

”Chireadan wore them in the bathroom for three months when he moved in,” he tells, remembering how Chireadan had needled them with diagrams of warts and the statistics. He called viruses and bacteria the Silent Invaders, and was in a frazzled state of disinfecting door handles and cleaning surfaces for hours after every read chapter in his textbooks. How a germophobic thought a medical degree was a good idea to pursue continues to be one of life’s great mysteries.

“Oh but I see why,” Jaskier says, his mouth slanting into a smile of fond delight. His steps so far are so dainty and self-indulgent they might as well be non-existent. Milva shakes her head in disbelief and walks ahead towards home.

Geralt keeps his voice low and disappointed. “Mm. I’ve tried to buy them off him but he won’t sell. The high quality… They just don’t make ‘em like this anymore.”

“Oh?” Jaskier snaps his gaze from his toes to Geralt’s face. “What’s his price, do you think? Please,” he pleads, “I don’t have much, but I have my trade. Do you think he’d prefer a good gig or a ballad? Or a poem, dedicated to his paramour?”

Geralt shrugs, refusing to look in Cahir’s direction or he’ll break. “I don’t think he’d be interested.”

“He could be. This concerns my health, Geralt, and my health concerns me greatly.”

“Hm…I don’t know,” Geralt muses. “Chireadan is a good man. He’s not materialistic, like Cahir here—”

“Hey!”

“—but if you offered to clean his room, or take out the trash, I think he’ll appreciate the effort. Clean the house and he might even end up giving them to you.”

Jaskier gapes. “You really think he…?” before hearing Cahir’s giggle. He frowns, realization dawning. “Oh. You horse’s arse!”

Geralt laughs and for that he earns a punch in the arm and an inept kick to the chin. Then, seeing as Jaskier has but one shoe again, he goes to retrieve the sandal from where it has disappeared down a crevice.

He comes back reluctantly ten minutes later.

“I didn’t find it,” he confesses sheepishly.

“Oh for Faith’s sake.” Jaskier hobbles closer. He bets the Witcher is hiding the sandal behind his back. Jaskier will make sure he pays for his insolence. “Come here, big brave Witcher. You got something on your face.”

He plucks the glasses from Geralt’s nose and throws them away with a flick of the wrist.

The glasses fly in a bow trajectory into the foliage.

Jaskier pales when realization hits. He angered a Witcher. He’s _dead_.

“Oh shiiit,” Cahir says as Geralt’s eyes narrow and he smiles the way he does seconds before he’s about to throw someone (usually Cahir, who learns how to fight and wrestle in the police academy but regularly meets his match in Geralt, who has wrestled foster kids and other boys since he was a kid).

Jaskier manages to grab a handful of Geralt’s shirt but goes down with a grunt (read: startled squeal and a ‘oomph’).

Geralt, the victor in this 0.2 second fight, settles his concrete buttocks comfortably on top of the bard’s chest. Jaskier would shove him off if it wasn’t for his wrists being held down in the dirt. “Do you know how much those cost?” Geralt leans threatingly over him, strands of his long hair dancing over Jaskier’s face.

Jaskier would gladly answer that if he still could breathe. “Ngghhh.”

“Thought so.” Geralt looks very content. He elegantly steps off and brushes off his clothes.

Jaskier coughs and laughs, breathing through the shock. He can’t remember ever being single-handedly thrown to the ground before, and it didn’t even hurt. Did he just rough-housed with a Witcher and _lived?_

He might want to try that again.

He stretches his arms up and pretends to sulk. “Help. I think I broke a rib on your arse.”

“Nope,” Geralt says, and saunters away.

But he still got one sandal and they’re not back yet. “Cahir?”

“Yeah, buddy. Not cool,” Cahir says with a headshake and follows the Witcher.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 10k in and Geralt and Jaskier have a sweet moment. Well done, my boys.  
> Also, Regis does his thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there's references to interogation and intimidation in this chapter. You can read the end note if you want more information before you continue. The fluff happens after the *** mark. Please, be safe :)

Jaskier caws in fright, heels finding no purchase on the mattress. He grabs a fistful of his sweat-soaked sheets to his chest at the sight of the demon spirit looming in the shadows by the bedroom door.

“You,” Jaskier says when he has collected himself enough to form sentences, “You’ve been hanging around there long?”

Regis tilts his head and slyly taps an index finger to his lean cheek. “Do you intend to grow a full beard?”

Now where did that question come from. “Wha…” Jaskier’s hand fly up to his chin, where five days of bristly negligence greets him.

“I’ve honed my razors for you. None of that Gillette crap. If you’d follow me outside.” Regis doesn’t wait for an answer before he moseys out of the bedroom like the most servile demon who’s walked two inches above earth.

 _Finally,_ some good service up in this tavern.

“Bring a sweater, Jaskier. It’s chilly,” comes Regis’ incorporeal advice.

Jaskier hurries to extricate himself from the bed and, trusting the surgeon’s understanding of the weather, swaddles his shoulders in one of them sheets.

There’s no one puttering around in the house at this hour, he can tell by the saturated silence that only exists around dawn. He passes Geralt’s door and trails after the medic into the kitchen. Regis picks up a gleaming item from an aluminum tray on the table, breaking the sanctus chanting in Jaskier’s head with a metallic _snip-snip_.

The blades of the scissors are huge and sharpened, expertly handled in the surgeon’s hand. Jaskier doesn’t particularly enjoy the sight of them or the items on the tray – where more than one knife rest in a sham of innocence. He’s not foreign to enforced questioning, being the cross-kingdom traveling performer he is. He has been treated with mistrust by those who see spies and propaganda agents in every corner, both official guards and shady guilders. As the Nilfgaardian forces rages on in the south, the regal halls of Cintra are degrading to a council of war. It’s a raise against the clock: sovereign territories and territories under Cintra’s rule alike needs confirmation that Queen Calanthe isn’t intending to relinquish them.

He suddenly recalls the dream from which depths he’d left when sensing Regis’ presence in the bedroom. In his dream, or nightmare really, he had walked through the whispering halls of the Cintran castle, until he found himself back in the dreary corridors of the weathered castle he’d been performing in the night of his descent through the portal. Now a sense-memory of mold, cold and his lambent lantern, he was returned to taste the sour tang of ill intent, and the wet sensation of being creeped upon. A hellish gale wailed outside, as mighty and loud as if an entire world was about to expire. Disturbed by the violent storm he lost his directions in the labyrinth of corridors, blindly fumbling from door to door knowing he was hunted, stalked by something Unseen, Ancient and Dark. There was still time, time to reach the bedchamber and safety. Just as he was twisting the key in the final lock he felt it descend on him: the demon materializing behind him, nosing in his ear as would a bull; then shadowy talons forcing his head back in an impossible angle. A mouth covered his with black, rotten lips; he gasped as it latched on and begun to suck the force of his life straight out of his lungs. Relentless and uncaring, like he was nothing more than a vessel to drain and discard.

Jaskier shudders, remembering he didn’t feel those omens then, the night he fell through the portal. There had been a storm, yes, but no demon, just an afterthought added by his productive artist mind. Although the scenario of him walking unknowingly into an ambush does fill him with dread.

“Are we giving you a hair-cut?” Regis smiles at his paling face. “Don’t worry, your hair’s safe for the time being. I promise if I do cut your fringe, I’d only take the tips. Show those eyes to the world.”

“No, it’s all right,” Jaskier stammers, feeling silly.

Regis chuckles. “If only Geralt was as compliant as you. He’s been avoiding my scissors for months.”

The barber-surgeon has set up shop on the inner courtyard, a patio between the kitchen door and the garden. Morning dew still glistens on the roses clinging to the pergola, a contrast to the serpentines of heavy steam from a crockpot placed on a stool. A deck-chair has been wiped clean and covered with blankets. “Sit,” Regis invites, and Jaskier, suspecting it’s not a request, sits.

He grabs the armrests as Regis releases a lever and lowers Jaskier backwards until he’s facing the sky.

He remains still, feeling at mercy as Regis starts to lather shaving-cream to his cheeks with a large brush of fine hair. The odor from the cream tingles in his nose, and eyes. Regis hums and dips his hand down in the pot, fishing up a steaming towel. “Just a sec.”

Regis goes to the edge of the patio and wrings the excess water from the towel, until its moist but still warm. He drapes the towel over Jaskier’s face. Jaskier is blind now, and can only rely on his hearing as the medic moves around his back. Under the towel his skin and tight muscles warms and loosens. Strong fingers move to his temples and begins to press his scalp back and forth, back and forth in languid circles. Jaskier hums in satisfaction and forces his taunt arms and back to relax further, even though it’s hard.

“It’s all right, Jaskier. Relax,” The surgeon’s murmur spreads through Jaskier’s limbs and lets them grow even heavier. He lets out a full breath and watch his eyesight blur at the edges.

He doesn’t know how long the massage last, but when he blinks at the sky again he feels newly awaken and missing the warm wrapping; the warm, comforting hands. The sharpened edge of a scalpel shimmers in the air, thin but perfected for its purpose. Regis cups him under the chin to tilt him in the angle he needs and starts the shave.

 _Ritch, ritch, ritch._ Regis is fast, faster and more precise than any of the barbers Jaskier has encountered. He fights to remain still and pliant as the scalpel is returning to his throat, finding the errant whiskers around his apple. He wishes Regis would tell him again to relax and to not gulp, because his nails are digging crescents in the armrests.

“So… tell me. Where exactly did you and Geralt meet?”

Jaskier mind reels. “Uh, at the University...”

“Where?” Regis repeats, still rinsing and scratching the knife awfully close to his vital veins.

“Uhm… at the inn? Three, or four nights after I got there?” He doesn’t know what Regis wants, but it’s clearly something. Information. Intel.

“You never went anywhere else during that time?”

“No.”

“And you just happen to fall into my boy Geralt’s lap, is that it? Where you alone?”

“…Yes?” Jaskier hadn’t known Geralt was a Witcher back then. Not until later than evening, when Chireadan had examined him with _much better_ bed manners, frankly.

“Are you lying to me, Jaskier?” Regis leans over him, stroking calmly along the line of Jaskier’s jaw, scalpel an inch from his nose-tip. His thumb caresses under Jaskier’s eye, increasing slightly in pressure.

Jaskier refrains from shaking his head. “I wouldn’t.”

Regis’ expression darkens. “You’re bleeding.”

Jaskier slowly becomes aware of the prickling sensation high up on his cheek, just underneath his eye. Regis picks something up, a tincture, and pours a few drops on the towel. He presses the area to the minuscule cut, causing the bard to hiss in pain. Regis cradles his face in his hands, not much different than a vice, preventing him from flinching. Jaskier presses his eyes shut to prevent them from watering and listens to himself breathe through his nose.

“Can I offer you some advice?” Regis’ voice is still cool and polite in his ear. “Don’t walk around spilling your guts about your situation. Drawing maps and such nonsense. I don’t mind it, not at all, as long as you refrain from confining in someone else; someone who’s not a resident in this house.”

Jaskier goes for a confirming nod. He’s already giving up on that enterprise, considering the response.

“Trust me, Jaskier, I’m just looking out for your wellbeing.” Regis pats his shoulder. “There. As good as new. Except for a few scratches.”

He leans back to give Jaskier space to sit up and catch his bearings. He’s feeling a bit faint and nauseous.

Regis picks up his tray and delivers his last warning: “You may continue using my bed when I’m not around as long as you adhere to a few ground rules. One, you don’t jerk off in my bed. Ever. Treat yourself in the shower or not at all. Break rule number one and I castrate you with my clippers, do I make myself clear?”

Jaskier nods.

“Two, you don’t borrow my clothes. I’ve seen enough of your track record to entrust my wardrobe to you. Three, you sleep on the couch with no complaints those nights I’m home, understand?”

“What if I want to sleep in another bed?”

The ghost of a smile crosses Regis’ face. “Then I won’t judge you.” 

***

Sunday sees Geralt dragging his early butt into the kitchen around 6 AM, a mean habit to wake at dawn drilled into him from years of farm work. At least he no longer has to participate in Vesemir’s pre-dawn work-out sessions: the push- and pull ups in the barn followed by the obstacle course was the worst. Gongs still makes sweat break out over his body in anticipation of the physical strain; urges him to run; to throw Lambert in the mud and compete for the finish line. Maybe later, in fact, his brother is scheduled to come over today to showcase his latest pet project.

Regis comes through the kitchen door, carrying his aluminum tray that would give Geralt the creeps if he hadn’t known Regis to be a softie, and would’ve chosen a more sophisticated way of murdering someone than copying Sweeny Todd. Regis cleans and dries off his equipment and they stand in comfortable silence as Geralt waits for the coffee to brew. “Everything all right?” He says before Regis leaves.

Regis bundles up his tools. “In this house?” he jokes. “Time will tell.” 

Jaskier comes in through the kitchen door a moment later, looking self-conscious and wiping at his jaw unsurely when he discovers Geralt by the table.

Geralt takes a sip. “Regis let you out to pee?” The stray dog reference from yesterday was too blantant to ignore.

“Hm? That’s surprisingly accurate.”

Jaskier looks a bit more subdued than before. He squirms in place, and Geralt doesn’t know how to respond when Jaskier’s just standing there. He feels a bit bad. It had surprised him how fast he had forgotten that Jaskier wasn’t one of his brothers, even tough he argued and teased like one. Being an exasperating hemorrhoid in Geralt’s ass didn’t actually equal getting tackled. 

“Don’t pee on my flowers,” he mutters.

“Bah, I wasn’t—I was gushing them with love and nourishment,” Jaskier waves him off, seems to shrug out of his stupor and saunters straight for the loaf of bread forgotten on the counter. Geralt watches in growing horror as the dork puts his _unwashed_ hand in the bag and tears a large piece off the loaf—the pre-sliced loaf. He stuffs a chunk directly into his mouth and chews happily.

Vesemir would’ve cut his hand off.

Geralt huffs. “Who raised you?”

Jaskier, cheeks straining, grants him a glance over his shoulder. “ _Iph_ there _somphing_ to drink?”

“Was that English? No. You’d probably just lap it from a plate on the floor.”

Still, he lets Jaskier sit down by the table, in clear line of sight, with no further intervention.

Jaskier continues chewing and nipping at his lump of bread, glancing at him under his lashes (this feigned innocence and those imploring eyes won’t work on Geralt’s defenses, nope, not a chance). “Please forgive my perceived indiscretions,” he says, hiding his mirth behind a strategically placed index finger.

Geralt puts his coffee mug down with a thud and scowls at the moron, who’s evidently too dense to get that he’s interfering with Geralt’s sacred meditating-in-silence-by-the-grace-of-the-first-coffee-of-the-morning ritual. But Jaskier is a guest in his house so he’d feel bad for throwing him out. Right? Instead he makes a clipped inquiry about what Jaskier would like to drink.

“Why thank you. Ale, if you have it.”

A thin fissure appears down the mug Geralt’s holding. “You don’t think it’s a bit too early for that?”

“Is it? I’ll have wine, then,” Jaskier says with a lovely smile that goes wry at the end. “You did push my face into the dirt yesterday. Serve me your finest year and _I_ —” he points between himself and Geralt, “—will consider forgiving _you_.”

 _Hm!_ Should he defend himself, or…apologize? He braces for Jaskier’s anger. He probably deserves it.

“Ooh,” Jaskier whirls his fingers, not deterred by Geralt’s scowl, “The scary face. Not so effective, is it now?”

The knot that has taken up residence in Geralt’s chest since yesterday (growing worse by Geralt refusing to acknowledge Jaskier’s existence) loosens when the idiot shoots him a wink. Then Jaskier whines and subtly rubs at a small cut underneath his eye.

Geralt lowers his face down to the table-top where he can bury it in his arms and pretend Jaskier is not coaxing a smile out of him.

“Fine,” he grumbles, realizing he can’t win this conversation. He sucks at apologizes, but maybe Jaskier will let this go for a token gesture. Jaskier wants a beer at 7 AM? He can have a beer at 7 AM.

He ends up pouring Jaskier an IPA in the largest and most lumpy-looking tea mug they have (‘you don’t have a tankard? Savages’) and throws him judgmental glances when Jaskier proceeds to tear pieces of the bread and dip it in the beer.

“You know, we have a toaster.”

Jaskier nods uncommittedly and slurps his bread. He licks his fingers. “Mm. Viscount de Lettenhove approves of this beverage.”

He’s freshly shaven, curtesy of Regis going by the high-quality shaving cream clinging to a tousle of Jaskier’s fringe. Geralt finds it hard to avert his gaze from Jaskier’s face, and fingers, now when he doesn’t expect Jaskier to cower or sneer. There’s just the two of them in the kitchen, sharing space and quietude. He has been short for answers before by Jaskier’s long lashes and eyes shining brightly, accentuated by the beard-growth taking over most of his face, but now there’s more unveiled to steal Geralt’s breath: sunkissed skin that looks silky and smooth to the touch, a small mouth with a plump bottom lip, cheeks that are a bit on the pudgy side. Jaskier keeps touching there… and sliding his fingers lower, down his throat. Jaskier’s emotions are on display as well, emotions which he’s willingly sharing with a smile that manage to be both sweet and wry. Almost like he’s enjoying the attention he’s receiving. 

“Did Regis shave you?” Geralt manages. He shifts his legs under the table. Jaskier’s slurping _is_ distracting.

“He did….” Jaskier pretends to shudder. “Thought he was about to slice my throat for a moment there. …Do you know he’s the second person to threaten my silent lute with a shear in less than two days?”

Geralt laughs quietly.

“That’s just Regis. I’ve been in the receiving end of that knife to,” he says to show camaraderie. The medic is the most pacifist man he knows. “Did he threaten to cut your hair too? I’ve been actively avoiding his scissors for a month.”

“He did!” Jaskier chuckles, his body relaxing to a more comfortable position in the chair. “You could use a hair-cut though. Looks to me there’s been plenty of months.” He juts his chin indicating Geralt’s unbrushed hair, which currently hides in a bun on his head. What—he’s tired.

“I’m thinking about buzzing it short,” Geralt says without much thought. He did when it started to lose pigment, coming in alabaster white, fucking albino gene. He’d looked like a badger until he finally relented and let Vesemir cut the last tips of his brown hair. There might have been tears. “Do you think it would look good?”

He holds a few errant strands of hair from his face and realizes he’s actively fishing for Jaskier’s attention—offering himself to the other man’s scrutiny. He holds Jaskier’s observant gaze hostage, refusing to let his uncomfortableness show.

Jaskier takes a long moment to answer. His mouth pulls into one of those slanting smiles that must be one of the sexiest things Geralt has encountered in his life. “Judging by your style of clothing, I would leave the hair fashion choices up to Regis.”

“Mm. Fair enough.”

A rumble in his stomach reminds him that he hasn’t eaten breakfast yet. He’s got to eat, and Jaskier’s got to eat, so he might as well make them a breakfast that is less liquid.

“I’m gonna make grilled cheese sandwiches,” he decides, a popular breakfast dish since he prepares enough to feed a small army. “Do you want a Mediterranean or Simon & Garfunkel?” He asks out of old habit as he plucks the remaining bread-slices out of the bag (throwing the torn out parts in the compost bin) and places dem on the cutting board. He pours some olive oil in a frying pan on the stove.

“A what now?” Jaskier asks, watching Geralt work with mild curiosity. “The second one, with the funkels.”

“Hm. I like your taste.”

Soon Geralt is buttering bread and composing toppings from his collection of fresh thyme, rosemary, tarragon, parsley, chives, oregano and basil, to name a few. Jaskier is lured in by the smell of melting cheese wafting from the frying pan and is set to the task of buttering more bread. He has no idea how to work the tap or where the soap comes from, which Geralt finds alarming to put it mildly but he’s not interested in starting a fight, so he lets it pass. What does it matter to him that Jaskier choses to live in a fantasy world of his own? People cope in various ways, and he shouldn’t judge Jaskier for finding another, albeit more severe way of dissociating from his past experiences just because it differs from the common way, or Geralt’s own.

“This cheese is produced at Kaer Morhen,” he says, as he slices another block of cheese on the cutting board.

“What’s Kaer Morhen?” Jaskier inconspicuously pops a baby tomato into his mouth.

For a second Geralt regrets bringing the topic up—His dad and the homestead is a topic he rarely brings up in conversation. On the other hand. Jaskier doesn’t look like he cares for the details of Geralt’s not so picket fence childhood. He’s just a temporary guest whom Geralt doesn’t share any old history with, a well-meaning leech who looks unreasonably pleased when he chews tomatoes and licks up parsley-leaves he’s stolen from their assigned bowl.

“It’s where I grew up. Uhm, since I was six. I, uhm… got adopted by a man who likes to collect kids with rare diseases. Some misdirected Mother Teresa crap. We worked as farm hands, more or less.”

The eyes were a guiding factor for Vesemir when he chose which kids to foster. Geralt hadn’t questioned the old man’s motives back then. When you’re six years old you don’t question a grown-up who squats down to your eye-level and encourages you to look him carefully in the eye.

‘Why do I want you on my ranch, do you think?’ Vesemir had asked, with the same gently assertive tone as his first teacher in school.

Geralt raised his head and dared to meet his eyes. Eyes which patiently waited for Geralt to get with the program, with irises filled to the brim with the same ruined pigment as Geralt’s. Vesemir was the first ever person he’d met or even heard of with the same eye-disease.

‘Hold on, boy.” Vesemir blinked, before contracting his pupils to a mere millimeter in width.

Geralt gasped in surprise; he instinctively laid his hand on Vesemir’s bristly cheek. ’You’re like me.’

Vesemir chuckled, a guttural sound emanating from deep within his lungs, which in time Geralt would start to associate with home. The old man’s paw-like hand gently covered Geralt’s small one. ‘No,’ he said, ’not yet.’

No six-year-old questions a grown-up who promises to take him away from the impersonal group home he had lived in ever since his mom disappeared. A grownup who promised him a home where he’ll feel accepted and never be teased for his appearance, seeing as there are two other boys there who had the same condition. Later, when he’s fifteen and his life starts to fall apart at the seams, and after, when he was eighteen and leaving home for college, his perception changes. He questions the naïve boy he’d been, and whether Vesemir ever did care for his children and their safety.

“Diseases, huh?” Jaskier pulls a face of disgust. “Sounds ghastly. You mean to tell me you were raised in a home for leprae and plague victims?” His gaze pointedly slips down to below Geralt’s waistline. “Any important parts missing?”

Geralt tilts his head, catching Jaskier’s gaze before it lingers, “Really? Those are the _rare_ diseases that comes to mind?”

“What do I know. I study the liberal arts, Geralt. I cannot be everywhere.”

“True. My apologizes,” Geralt says loftily and returns to his sandwiches. “The lepers taught me how to make goat cheese, so that’s something.”

“It does smell delicious.” Jaskier says, appreciative.

“Mm,” Geralt agrees, relieved that Jaskier doesn’t instigate some stilted conversation about his childhood just to be polite.

Jaskier clears his throat. “My… apologizes for chucking your glasses. I was wrong to do that.”

Oh. Geralt’s glasses are cleaned and safely tucked away in his bedroom (the sandal is still on the lamb, though). “It’s… it’s okay, I don’t…” Geralt shakes his head, hoping the sentiment will come through.

“Even so,” Jaskier softly says and graces him with another warm, slanting grin.

They are both on their third sandwich when the unmistakable rumble of a motorcycle-engine announces Lambert’s arrival on the street outside. It sounds terrible, which means they’ll have their work cut out for them for months to come. Geralt can hear his brother dismount on the driveway in front of the garage (where Roach the rebuilt Triumph lives, and she’s healthy). Jaskier looks like he’s ready to jump up and follow when Geralt stands, and for some unfathomable reason Geralt doesn’t like the idea.

“You don’t have to help,” he says as he starts to clean the dishes from the table, and smacks Jaskier’s hand away.

“Fucking ouch. I want to.” Jaskier picks up the fruit bowl and looks around for somewhere else to put it. He looks more frantic by the second. “Is there a cart outside? Geralt? A fucking striga or I don’t know, do you need your glasses? What shall I do?”

Geralt tugs at the fruit bowl, intending to put it back on its spot on the table. Which he can’t do when Jaskier insist on clinging on to it like he’s planning to use it like an ancient Greek throwing a discus.

“It’s just Lambert, my brother. We’ll be out in the garage if you need me. Listen—” He places a heavy hand on Jaskier’s shoulder at the same time as the front doors open, Lambert calling out a bellowing: “Hello, ladies! We’re going shopping!” (Geralt fucking hates him.)

Jaskier flinches, causing Geralt’s hand to drop. 

“Relax. No one’s going to pummel you,” he assures, half-joking. He doesn’t want Jaskier walking around on eggshells. But he might if he’s exposed to Lambert. And there’s just a tiny part of Geralt, barely acknowledged, that wants to keep Jaskier to himself a bit longer. He smiles apologetically and nips at Jaskier’s billowing t-shirt. “Maybe you should go shower. Find something to wear?”

“What do you mean he’s your brother?” Jaskier looks down. “Perhaps I should wait to make him acquaintance until I’m properly dressed.”

He’s not removing himself from Geralt’s personal space; instead peers down on the spot on his shirt where Geralt’s finger were, a ruddy blush spreading over his neck to his ears. He’s close enough for a moment that Geralt scents him without conscious thought: he registers the shaving cream, a thin and insufficient layer over the musk of unwashed skin, dirt and the enticing scent that’s Jaskier’s own and private, mingling with the spices in the kitchen. Thyme, Geralt thinks dimly, and something more pungent. He gets his answer with a waft of Jaskier’s morning breath, strong with the aroma of beer and unbrushed teeth.

“Yeah.” Jaskier flails a hand as he inches backwards towards the stairs. “I’ll just… Regis told me to not go into his closet, and I assume your clothes are out of the question, so I think I’ll try my luck with Cahir and Chireadan.”

“Sounds like you got a plan,” Geralt agrees, and watches Jaskier sneak up the stairs, not managing to avoid Lambert’s attention though.

Lambert, all big grin and ginger curls bobbing in his forehead, tears his gaze from Jaskier’s ascending butt to gape at Geralt. “Nice! Who’s that?”

Did Geralt mention he hates his brother?

(He doesn’t really.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: Regis asks Jaskier questions while holding a shaving knife close to his throat. Jaskier has been questioned by guards before.  
> Jasker has a nightmare that someone sneaks up behind his back and "kisses" him. We dunno who dun it.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have no explanation for how this chapter came to be.

_Lambert, Lambert, what a prick_ Geralt fondly recites the childhood rhyme, used to knock his younger brother down a peg whenever he was behaving self-entitled, or being a general annoyance. They were only eighteen months apart – and from different wombs – but they united in their new status as orphans and shared aptitude for getting up to no good on the Kaer Morhen farm. They both wore the battle-scars of those days proudly on their skin: a prominent one was the scar across his brother’ forehead. Sauntering into the kitchen carrying a cooler and tote-bags with Kaer Morhen produce, Lambert wore the same shit-eating grin as the day he got the scar and found out how to use his weaknesses to his advantage: Geralt forgot who, it might have been him but it was a long time ago, might as well have been on Eskel’s suggestion ( _pff_ ) but _someone_ had the bright idea one day to catch and tame a wild boar in the woods. Geralt and Lambert had been nine and seven years old, respectively, and Eskel pretended he didn’t know them.

The boar, in opposition to being collared and leashed by two runts, ran Lambert over in its inevitable escape, flinging him several feet in the air into a tree. Geralt had been horrified by the blunt thud of Lambert’s head connecting with the bark and the following unnerving silence. For a period of thirty seconds his world ceased to exist, until Lambert looked at him with blood gushing down his face, thought over his options, smiled giddily and wailed like his insides were being ripped out of his body. Seeing as Lambert was smaller and cried louder when he got hurt Geralt typically took the brunt of the punishment. When Lambert wailed in agony Geralt knew he was looking at a long stretch of kitchen duty – and that he’d created a monster.

Lambert enters the kitchen with no concept of what’s requested of a guest – knocking, for starters – or refraining from lewdly commenting on other house guests’ retreating asses, and it’s like they are teens again. With Lambert endlessly needling his brother and teasing him for the crush – the agonizing, embarrassingly all-consuming crush Geralt developed on the force of nature that was Yen (Chireadan would understand). Lambert never lets him forget, but if Lambert’s teasing is 100% aimed at Geralt and the only victim is his pride, then Geralt lets it slide.

Besides, Geralt knows where Lambert’s secret insecurities lie. When Lambert walks right into Geralt’s hug it’s easy to card a hand through Lambert’s ginger fringe and not let go until he has checked the progress of his hairline. “Hm. Still receding.”

“Shut up, Butt-face. How’s your crack?” Lambert grins and pats his jaw. Hard! That’s a slap.

Geralt dodges and covers his chin in an ancient self-conscious manner. Not that he’s ashamed of his butt-chin but Lambert’s quips are like Pavlov’s bells to his brain. He retaliates with a slap of his own and grimaces when Lambert’s hand waders into his uncombed hair and pulls. “You good?” Lambert asks conversationally, as they both go for putting the other in a head-lock. A chair topples over.

“What about you?” Geralt grimaces through the pain of a straining scalp, “Are you holding up?”

There’s an undeniable stench of manure and sheep coming off Lambert, and fresh cuts and blisters on his hands. He’s strong but leaner than just two weeks ago. A familiar guilt surges in Geralt as he remembers that spring is a busy season for the farmers on Kaer Morhen – with the lambing and the preparing of the fields et cetera. The thought of having been left out; that they chose not to call him in, is gutting. He tightens his grip around his brother’s neck and another chair goes down.

“What is it with questions like that, am I holding up?” Lambert laughs. “My dick is what I’m holding up.” He juts his hip into Geralt’s.

“Disgusting.” Geralt lets Lambert go. “Can you leave your dick out of the conversation for five minutes?”

“But my dick is such a _winning_ concept,” Lambert says, unbearably smug.

“I _let_ you win! Asshole.” Geralt uprights the chairs. He’s a bit amused by the fact that Lambert never developed beyond puberty.

“Butt-face.”

“Lam-butt.” (Nine-year-old Geralt was proud of that one.) (Still are.)

Lambert picks up the cooler and over-flowing bags where he left them on the floor. He knows the kitchen well enough to start putting the produce away in the fridge and pantry. “I don’t know how I ended up being your personal butler. Is there something else he needs, Lord Ass-face?”

“I’m Lord Ass-face now? I thought I was Butt-face.”

“Only when you’re slumming it with your family, my lord.”

The quip stings a bit. He and Lambert never explicitly talked about it, but Geralt leaving Kaer Morhen for college and now a master’s degree hadn’t been… with the agreement and loving support of his family members. Geralt hadn’t even told Vesemir of his long-term goals until second year, afraid that when the subject was brought up he’d be immediately ordered to come home. Vesemir didn’t raise him to stare at biological samples in a lab – he raised him to mend a broken fence.

“How’s Eskel, and Hazel? Anything I should know?” He keeps in contact but it’s not the same as visiting, not even close. He has random, nonsensical chats with Hazel on his phone, but memes and trading videos about “Sixty ways to cook a potato” and the latest musical endeavors of Harry Styles is not exactly an extensive report of how his siblings are doing these days.

Lambert shrugs. “I don’t know. I’ve been busy with a… pain in the ass retailer. And the bike. You want to see her, right? She’s a sight to behold. I love her.”

“Must be quite a sight if you noticed it.”

They keep on bickering (Geralt wanting an explanation as to why Butt seems to be classified as the informal replacement of Ass) until they’re outside on the driveway, where Geralt can inspect Lambert’s rescue motorcycle. He pretends it’s a shit investment, but she might even be a neglected beauty the likes of Roach.

***

Every step upstairs is an exercise of will for the bard. Below is the passing chance of a safe-conduct: another Witcher, treading heavily on the wooden floors, an unseized offer in every step. Jaskier and his borrowed pockets decide to persevere and bide time, which is certainly hard for him under regular circumstances. He thinks he hears Geralt’s brother asking about his name, and the urge to answer swells in his mouth. Geralt answers with a murmur, and Jaskier decisively puts his hand on the second-floor banister.

The house on Yaruga has five bedchambers. The Witcher and Regis the surgeon sleep on the ground floor. It’s a good chance that the two doors in front of Jaskier belongs to the two blonde chaps. Their doors are decorated with signifying paintings: one depicting monsters (a Dota poster). The other one is a portrait of a distinguished older gentleman who’s possibly Chireadan’s grandfather or ancestor, with the heraldry family motto (it’s a poster of Gandalf the Grey with the quote ‘ _It’s a dangerous business, walking out one’s front door’_ ).

Chireadan’s portrait implies that the bard will find a more refined wardrobe in there but monsters… monsters do have a certain pull, at least to Jaskier. There could be actual armor in there, and he needs to start thinking in those lines, as a matter of safety.

The door to Cahir’s room opens with ease. Jaskier becomes aware of a few ruffle sounds of sheets and content hums, obscured by the door, but the time for personal risk-taking is nigh. There’s a set of dark garments hanging from the armoire, and they’ll have to do. He inches forward on his tip-toes, hand precariously covering his impressionable eyes from sin.

Not that he ever claimed to be perfectly ascetic. Severe self-discipline and abstention are disastrous for the soul’s spiritual development, he once wrote a small thesis about this subject. Old Fart Ansellus wasn’t pleased, considering he was writing the essay as repentance for one of those forms of indulgence he was meant to abhor.

What he sees when peeking through his fingers towards the bed is not what he expected, though – he expected the rumbled sheets and Cahir’s hairy calf hanging off the mattress, but not the blonde preoccupied by mumbling kisses into the neck of a girl… a girl shrouded in tousled dark hair and looking perfectly healthy and gleaming (very satisfying to see her out of her man clothes at last), a girl who’s none other than Milva?

The shock and subsequent murder in Milva’s face when she spots him has him throwing his hands up. “Woah woah,” he calms, subdued but triumphant, “I thought I heard a cat mewling in here. Glad we’re not dealing with a rat infestation.”

“Jaskier… what the fuck?” Milva says, at the same time as Cahir tenses and mutters the same sentence.

“Are you courting or am I expected to keep this fantastic _fabliaux_ out of my official repertoire?” Jaskier asks, quickly gathering the garments to his chest. The fabric feels stiff and expensive. Not that he’ll seriously consider holding the love dove’s indiscretions over their heads but he’s not above using this information to buy their cooperation.

“Why are you in my room?” Cahir says.

“ _Pff,_ this is not, we’re not, I mean…,” Milva casts a worried glance at Cahir, confirming Jaskier’s suspicions.

“Yeah, lovely talk, your indiscretions are safe with me,” Jaskier promises and makes haste to leave the room. “Remember my eyes are but passive receivers here. Except may I say, my dear, it’s a pleasure to see you out of those man clothes.”

Milva’s offended ‘My what?’ is drown out by Cahir’s: “Hey, did he—did he take my uniform?”

Jaskier closes the door with care (pew, she’s so temperamental, that girl, and so easy to bait) and after an honorary contemplation on the laws of propriety (fleeting), quickly strips off his sagging t-shirt and pajama pants.

What an odd word, pajama.

“Pajama. _Pff_.” He tosses them over his shoulder and moves on to the trousers hanging on the banister. The fabric is midnight blue and sturdy. The doublet is long with long sleeves, in a matching midnight hue. It will give him a pasty complexion, but beggars can’t be choosers. There’s a coat of arms on the sleeve. He runs his fingers over the stiches. Not a Nilfgaardian sun, to his relief, although you can never be too careful in these times.

He dresses quickly but to his horror the trousers are not closing – there’s no strings to tie. These trousers are broken! He grips them with one hand and staggers towards Chireadan’s bedroom. He will complete this outfit and impress a Witcher or two, so help him.

Down on the driveway, the two brothers are alerted by a series of irregular thumps and crashes from the second floor of the house. It’s the easily identifiable sounds of a fight, complete with falling furniture and several war cries. Lambert looks up to the window he knows belongs to Chireadan’s bedroom. Not that he has that information filed away, or lets his attention stray to that window whenever he comes over. Nah. He has everyone’s bedroom catalogued because he’s naturally detail-oriented. It has nothing to do with nothing, and he’s no fucking Romeo standing under a balcony, so shut up.

“So,” he says, as the war cries upstairs forms into shouted statement such as _Drop the gun! Now!_ He knows Cahir is in the Police Academy. Hopefully he hasn’t had a psychotic break and vouched to murder Chira.

“Mm,” says Geralt.

“Shouldn’t you go up there and save your boyfriend?” Lambert wonders.

Geralt has no interest in what goes on upstairs. As long as Milva is on the scene, he doesn’t care to know. This is not the first time Cahir and Chireadan have tried to kill each other and the furniture (they are like two siblings, fighting over who took what from the other’s room; the accused denying vehemently and retaliating childishly), and it won’t be the last. Milva will sort it out.

Geralt is on the ground, squatting in front of the bike and running a finger along the tiny ornamental runes that’s been carved into the metal. He did the same to Roach when he put her together – transplanted some of the obscure and ultimately meaningless symbols from his childhood. He didn’t know that crap still meant something to Lambert, enough for him to repeat the ceremony. He shrugs one shoulder. “Eh. He’s fine.”

Lambert looks smug. “So you don’t deny it?”

“Deny what?”

“That you fucked him.” Lambert looks proud—of himself, not Geralt. “I’ve only seen his ass but what can I say, kudos to you, brother.”

Geralt feels an ugly blush creeping over his face. He throws the rag he’s been using at Lambert. “Do you _want_ me to hit you?”

“What’s that? You want to hug me? Aw,” Lambert squeezes his shoulder.

Geralt laughs and pushes him off. Then he goes inside to check on the commotion, just in case.

“Drop the gun!”

“No, you drop it!”

“I said. Drop. The gun!”

Geralt takes the stairs two at the time. He wasn’t lying when he said he wasn’t worried but the thought of Jaskier with Cahir’s service gun in his hands has him nauseous. “What’s going on?”

There’s no sign of Milva, and the three men are in all in Chireadan’s bedroom shouting death threats and performing some kind of game that’s vaguely familiar. Chireadan has his back pressed to the closet with a wand raised threateningly (how did he get roped into this?), Cahir is taking cover behind Chira’s upturned laundry basket while aiming a finger-gun and Jaskier is standing on Chireadan’s unmade bed, red and sweaty with a wizard hat askew on his head, chest heaving as if after a physical struggle – and undone pants clutched in one hand. Suddenly, at the sight of Geralt, his face split with an ear-to-ear grin: “Geralt! These mages are trying to kill me!”

Hm. He looks too happy and radiant for someone who’s about to be murdered, but just confused enough to be secretly worried. Geralt glances at the other two morons – they are both pointing finger-guns at Jaskier _and_ each other, looking like they’ve been circling each other around the room. The furniture is mostly intact even though everything else in Chira’s possession are in shambles, and Geralt wishes he could say this was the first incident of a the Office inspired Mexican stand-off, but he would be lying.

“Use a Sign!” Jaskier hollers. He moves his palm in Cahir’s direction for some reason and looking very eager for Geralt’s participation. ““Sign the Nilfgaardian bastard, he deserves it!”

“Yeah, sign the shit out of me, Geralt, do it!” Cahir has tumbled over the invisible limit of excitement to over-excitement and pure rage. They are both using way too much volume for a room of this size.

“Hey, Cahir.” Jaskier cups himself lewdly. “I’m wearing _nothing_ under this!”

“Oh you fucker! Desecrating of the uniform is a chargeable offence!” Cahir attacks, barreling into Jaskier’s legs. Jaskier perseveres by grabbing Cahir’s hair, and Chireadan (not helping) leaps onto Cahir’s back with a desperate shout: “Not the hat! It’s vintage!”

The beast with three backs crash into the desk (Chireadan tries to save his computer screen) and slide in a skein of odd-angled limbs to the floor.

“Aaah!” Jaskier cries. “Save me!!”

Geralt heaves a sigh and goes back downstairs, where there’s got to be an adult somewhere.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is it...a date?

The living-room—in a virtual state of disarray—isn’t what Geralt expected to see first thing on Monday morning. The creak in his back confirms the facts: that he spent the night sleeping on the sofa; that he got voted out of his own bedroom last night because apparently he gets up ’at the ass crack of dawn’ anyway. After yesterday’s events everyone wished to minimize the risk of encountering a streaking and/or stripping Jaskier in the living room, which was understandable.

Geralt folds his blankets and heads off to the bathroom, where he interrupts the melancholy contemplations of a golden, worse for wear 1600th century specter hanging in the shower. The fabric is moist and grainy, and still smells faintly of grape-juice and tears. Jaskier had requested ’vertjus’ for the grass stains and when no one verbally responded he snatched Geralt’s mortar from the kitchen shelf, pulled up his non-existent sleeves and started to grind grapes. Don’t ask. Geralt and Lambert, both lured inside to witness the affair, were arguing wether to subject the clothes to mild temperatures in the washing-machine or to use the old and proven baking soda trick, when Regis materialized like a belated first-responder.

’I know none of you have ever used one in your life but dry-cleaning businesses do _exist._ Give me that.’ Regis confiscated the clothes muttering ’peasants’ under his breath. Jaskier was too shocked by the exchange to do much more than splutter a ‘Hey!’ in protest.

An improvised drift shop was established in the living room over the course of the day. Cahir and Chira donated clothes from the dusty depths of their wardrobes: shirts that were long out of fashion, ill-fitting pants and faded t-shirts, which Jaskier held up with his fingertips but refrained from commenting on. An impressive show of self-restraint – it was plain to see the silent scream going on behind his suffering smiles and polite ’oh’s and ’ah’s. The first time he saw himself in a mirror dressed in a tight-fitting moss green sweater his eyes teared up (again). Geralt was at a loss: How couldn’t Jaskier see how, you know… _right_ , the sweater, uhm, matched his body-type? Objectively.

In the villages where Jaskier performed his wardrobe were a substantial part of his artistic allure, Jaskier had explained when he later tracked Geralt down in the greenhouse.

Jaskier walked around best he could in the cramped and humid space, poking at stalks and needlessly sniffing orchids while talking, mostly to hear his own voice, Geralt suspected.

Did people do that? Before Jaskier he had never thought about if some people needed, for some medical reason or other, to hear their own thoughts out loud. Jaskier wasn’t Narcissistic, nope, albeit a little bit in love with himself. But it seemed to be a gentle love comparable with the care and attention Geralt showed his plants.

Geralt looked down on his tray of courtesying melon seedlings. Was he standing here saying he harbored amorous feelings towards his fucking plants now?

‘Even in Posada my urbane vocabulary and perfumed hair are received with a mixture of envy and desire.’ Jaskier continued undeterred. ‘Not to toot my own horn but I am in a sense worshiped: a musical god descended from the heavens to give ordinary folk an exceptionally pleasant evening.’ He waved a hand dismissively, unintentionally slapping a tomato plant. ‘It’s all part of the illusion, I suppose. Honest farmers can’t drop what they’re doing to go to the cities and visit the theatre, so they make due with me. So Lambert told be a bit about your farm…’

‘Hm,’ Geralt replied, gently lowering a petite seedling into the new soil. He looked up, then did a double take.

Jaskier wore a bright red Hawaii shirt with a big white-and-green flower pattern. Buttons seemed to be the enemy here, and jeans and shorts to be below Jaskier’s standards so the pants he’d finally chosen (to wear, in public) was a pair of dress pants that Cahir once wore to his sister’s wedding. It wasn’t zipped, but hold together with a silk tie treaded through the waistband. The pants were hoisted up to his armpits, but it did wonders for his figure, Geralt thought with a snort. He had trouble schooling his face to neutral when Jaskier pranced around looking like a king inspecting his kingdom.

‘For future reference. That’s what a musical god’s supposed to wear?’

‘You don’t like it?’ Jaskier said, returning the sarcasm. ‘I didn’t have much to chose from, I’m afraid. What’s this then?’

Jaskier reached across Geralt’s arm with curious fingers, touching just about everything: the seedlings, the trowel, and the miniature pictures on the sticks. He flicked his nail against the stick-picture of the golden orange and yellow striped melons. He chuckled. ”What ho! This little babe will have your eyes!’

‘I don’t think you should speak like that wearing those clothes,’ Geralt replied, ‘People might get the wrong impression.’

On Monday Geralt thinks fondly of the afternoon as he sits down in the back row in the lecture hall, being late for the first time in four years. He opens his notebook and ignores the funny looks he receives from his classmates.

Lunch is eaten under the weeping fig. Chireadan comes over, but this time Geralt doesn’t suffer through his company. He unpacks the sallads he made for both of them and no one says it, but they both wonder if leaving a probable crazy person alone in their house was such a good idea. That’s exactly how dumb people get robbed. Geralt bites into his zoodle and mentally braces himself for a lifetime of remorse.

“I wouldn’t buy my coffee from the Lindenvale café for a while if I were you,” Chira drinks from the straw of his mocca latte. They are both looking straight ahead, surveying the area like two spies in a cold war spy novel. “The barista is an Art student. She has plastered the whole building with Wanted posters of you and Jaskier.”

Geralt swallows his food. _Coffee is a basic human right!_ a childish part of him protests, but then again no. He already made his peace with the probability of being banned for life. “Now I kind of want to see how I look.”

Chira unfolds a piece of paper. “Thought you would,” he says with glee, “I got one for Jaskier too!”

He hands it over, and Geralt holds it up to the light with eyebrows arched in appreciation. “Mm. Not bad. Can I, uh, see Jaskier’s?”

They are the worst pair of spies ever.

***

Tuesday goes by in the same calm pace but ends a bit differently. Geralt comes home late and finds the blinds closed in the living room. The flatscreen on the wall is the only source of light. Sitting on the coffee-table like some grown-up version of that little girl in Poltergeist is a color-drained Jaskier, wringing his hands.

Geralt curses whoever showed Jaskier how to work the remote and turns off the tv.

“Do you want to go for a walk?”

Jaskier voice is rasp and brittle. “ _Out there?_ ”

Jaskier doesn’t seem keen on the idea. His last excursion through the woods hadn’t gotten him far. It’s either the memory of Saturday or the exposure to Fox News that’s gotten him paler than a ghost.

“You need some fresh air,” Geralt rationalizes, but he can see there’s a deeper problem.

Jaskier ponders the statement in silence, uncertainty written across his face. For a second Geralt gets the unnerving sense that something else is wrong—something else causes Jaskier’s fear. He’s stiff as a board and his gaze keeps drifting towards the windows. Why did he close the blinds? A slew of possibilities arise: the police tracked him down and has the house surrounded; now Geralt isn’t just an accomplice but he’s the _kidnapper_ ; Jaskier is the president’s son and Geralt is looking at a life sentence; Jaskier is on the run from witness protection gone wrong; a crime syndicate has tracked Jaskier down to finish him off; Geralt has to stop reading Tom Clancy novels.

He walks casually across the floor, placing himself between Jaskier and the window and catches his eyes. “Is something wrong?”

Jaskier’s eyes widen. He cranes his head to look over Geralt’s shoulder. “What, no… Why, do you _think_ there’s something wrong?”

They stare at each other in mutual confusion. Jaskier sighs and rubs the side of his face with his palm, probably pressing down a headache.

“No,” Geralt states after the long silence, watching Jaskier visibly relax.

He doesn’t doubt there’s things Jaskier keeps secret, but Geralt is past forcing the answers. The déjà vu of it all has him gasping, and should’ve alerted Jaskier to his stress if Jaskier hadn’t been blind and deaf by his own anxieties. Renfri, his sister, kept secrets from him for years. Worse than that: she oscillated between confining in him and pushing him away, and he hadn’t understood until after her death. Still didn’t understand—because he hadn’t _asked_ her. There’s a life of missed opportunities; conversations cut short; warning glances down-played, that Geralt never will be privy to. He wills down the pain and anger until it’s back to just a lifeless dot in a void, a dull ember under his breastbone.

Jaskier, thoughtful, plucks with the fringe on Milva’s zebra-striped blanket he has spread over his knees. “I think… you’re right. I would like to do something, perhaps visit the theatre in this town. Or the market? Anywhere you would like to accompany me, actually. For one measly night I want to focus on something other than my own misery.”

Theatre. Market. As in supermarket? Geralt nods; holds out his hand. “Okay.” He wants to get out of the house. As soon as he acknowledges it—that he’s being offered a reprieve—he feels calmer.

They take Roach. Or, Roach takes them back to the university where they park on the other side of the train tracks. They stroll downhill to the botanical garden, situated by the water. Geralt uses his access card to the conservatory and leads Jaskier through the meandering aisles. Most students have vacated the premises, headed home for dinner and an evening in front of Netflix. It makes the humidity amidst the green leaves and trees more sheltered and private; embracing them in a cocoon of their own. Geralt knows what Jaskier is feeling along with his audible gasps when they wander through the sections, from the high-vaulted Mediterranean hall to the tropical section where coffee, cocoa, bamboo, and cotton greets them (what? He likes crop science).

He’s quite proud, of the conservatory and the collections, and of himself for bringing Jaskier here. The mesmerized glow in Jaskier’s eyes… it’s worth the uncertainly of the past week. 

The air is chill when they walk back to the parking lot, the fleeing daylight dispersing their silhouettes. Jaskier pushes the helmet down on his head and swings his leg over Roach without the hesitation from before. He sinks down on the saddle and grasps the handles with a firm expression the way he has seen Geralt do.

Geralt stands to the side, not having the heart to tell him to move aside. “You’re not screaming ‘Sorcery!’ and running away,” he remarks. “Are you not afraid of Roach anymore?”

Jaskier leans forward and tests the position on the Triumph. Geralt holds his breath when his thumb comes dangerously close to the ignition. “I’m just… trying it out,” he confesses. He rights up, thighs splayed to balance himself and the bike. “Where do we go now?”

True, the supermarket is open at this hour but Geralt deems it as a destination to work up to. They drive to the gas station closest to home and buy a lot of snacks.

“That’s the steeple! That’s where I was headed when this road intercepted me,” Jaskier says and points to the sky, now dusky as the sun sets and scattered with stars. They are sitting on a bench outside the gas station eating Swedish fish and hot fries. “Isn’t it radiant?” He whispers in awe, amid suckling on a red fish. “It’s not Cintran gold, is it. It’s _more_ radiant, more regal… Reminds me of the Cintran towers nonetheless.”

Geralt correctly identifies the mighty eye-sore in the landscape also known as the McDonalds sign and chokes on a fry.

Jaskier offers his sympathy with gentle back-pats. 

***

Wednesday comes and goes in a blur of classes and late night studying. Geralt keeps his guard up and searches for signs that security is looking for Jaskier. Two of the security guards eyes him when he walks by but they don’t approach. He realizes he’s walking past them because he wants to know more information. Jaskier is as silent as a grave now, and Geralt could check the missing persons register again; call his dad or do anything remotely rational, but he doesn’t.

He comes home at 10 PM, and greets his roommates with the bare minimum of syllables. Ironically enough his phone has one missed call from Vesemir.

Vesemir never calls. Geralt didn’t even know when Vesemir went from relying on the land line to a smartphone. 

He ignores the contact-attempt.

Thursday morning seems to be where Jaskier reaches another breaking-point. He has been cooped up in the house by his lonesome for only three days but boredom might explain why, when Geralt lets himself into his bedroom ( _His own bedroom_. If Regis is taking day-shifts just to screw with him…), he finds Jaskier draped on the bed on his stomach, sighing woefully in response to Geralt’s Good morning.

”There’s breakfast in the kitchen,” Geralt settles on. He quickly steps into his wardrobe and change shirts, because the sight of Jaskier sprawled on his bed, in his room, is unsettling.

Surrounding Geralt is the muffled sounds of the house waking up: pipes flushing, someone grinding coffee in the kitchen. He barely sees his roommates on weekdays: everyone’s focused on school, frantic over papers, or away on extracurriculars. Geralt gets Jaskier’s gloom – he grew up in a house full of siblings, never a moment alone. He think he gets it, but he doesn’t have a contingency plan for a freeloading Goldenlocks staying, unsupervised, in his house.

”Ugh,” Jaskier moans like an abandoned seal-calf from the bed.

“We’ve been over this. I’m not giving you the keys to the house. You’ll have to stay here until someone gets back.” Geralt looks to the lightbulb dangling from the ceiling in a silent prayer. ”You are _not_ making me late for class again. What do you need?”

Jaskier peers at him, hair tufted. ”Nothing, I require nothing.”

”Okay.” Geralt stealthily changes underwear.

Jaskier rolls over on his back. “I don’t ask Faith for much, in the great scheme of things. I don’t require marriage, nor children nor sanity to be happy…but I do require love, and friendship…and wine, and an audience full of shuddering and wonder. What the meaning of my life if I do not have those things?”

It’s too early in the day for existential dread. Geralt wonders if there’s a way to back-pedal the conversation; he could go to school in his sleep-shirt. He’s not used to talking in general, not even with his brothers. Jaskier, he talks like he would die if he hasn’t said something annoying or enigmatic to someone in a couple of hours. He talks incessantly, except when it matters. “I was asking more in the terms of do you want toast or cereal.”

”Oh.” A short pause. ”In that case the answer is: Cereal.”

“Just think, two days ago you were eating bread with your fists. I’ve never been prouder,” Geralt teases and steps into his jeans. A slight resistance reminds him what he put in his back-pocket two nights ago and forgot about. A perfect gift, considering the current circumstances.

“What are you doing?” Jaskier asks, as Geralt kneels in front of his desk with determination and starts to rummage through the cabinet.

“I bought something for you at the gas station.” Geralt removes the lid from a junk box, revealing a tangle of electronics. His old smartphone rests on top. Jaskier hangs over the edge of the bed and watches patiently as Geralt removes the lid and inserts the SIM card. He looks less impressed when Geralt shows him the home screen.

“That’s it?” Jaskier slips down on the carpet and examines the phone with a furrowed brow. “I think I have learned to discern the difference between a screen and a portal. This better not be a portal, because I can hardly fit my hand through it.”

“Stop messing around.” Geralt leans against the bed and holds out his hand for the phone. He checks the address book. The numbers are all there. He adds his current number and makes sure its at the top of the list. “This is my old phone. You can call me or anyone else in the house if you need something. Or you can leave with us in the morning and call if you need us to pick you up somewhere. Like jail.”

Or the bottom of the river. The employment agency. The ICE confinement. What does he know.

“Like the gas station?”

“Sure. Yeah.”

Jaskier smiles and tries to hand the phone back. “So? What do I do?”

The first class on schedule is not forgotten but down-prioritized when Geralt saunters through the corridor, meeting his roommate in the kitchen with a telling grin.

“The fuck happened to you?” Milva slurps her tea.

Geralt calls his old phone. “Wait.”

It rings.

“Geeerraaalt,” he hears Jaskier over-pronunce in his ear. “Ooooh, find GeeerraaaaaltooofRiiviiaaa.”

Geralt laughs. “What are you doing?”

“SHIT. GERALT I CAN HEAR YOU! TROUGH THE PORTAL! BUT YOU SAID- YOU LIED TO ME!”

Geralt holds the phone a safer distance from his ear. Milva has a hand clasped over her mouth.

“I’m sorry I lied,” Geralt apologizes, his face hurting from grinning so much. He will never hear the end of this.

There’s a metallic clatter on the other end. “I’m—shit! I’m stabbing you through the portal just so you know.”

That’s a genius idea. “Uh-huh, but I haven’t shown you how to do that yet.” Geralt starts to search through his library. He’s lucky to have grown up learning how to forge. He finds the beautiful knife Hazel designed a way back.

He sends it.

“Fuck, it squeaks like a mouse.” Jaskier drops the phone.

Milva takes a picture of Geralt and sends it on their group chat.

“That’s how it’s done,” she says and holsters her phone.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Monsters. Are they real?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We go back to the beginning of the week from Jaskier’s perspective. (Thought I mention it to clear up any confusion.)

Jaskier couldn’t decide if staying in the bedchamber of the Witcher was anti-climatic or not. He rested his head on softer pillows than he’d ever experienced. The lack of straw and absence of the usual less than pleasant but familiar smells of an inn made it impossible to sleep the first night, but that could have been exacerbated by his inner turmoil. He laid in bed exuding the avidity that came with having free, unsupervised rein to explore another’s private quarters, held back by his conscience: to snoop seemed wrong when Geralt had been nothing but accommodating from the start. Jaskier could have been sleeping outside still by a muddy river bank if it weren’t for the Witcher’s hospitability and yes, his own honed ability to get what he wanted. Jaskier did a quick survey of the room – opened drawers and boxes, not knowing what he was looking at; held framed life-like paintings in his hand, paintings of grinning boys and girls and a younger, slimmer Geralt – but cut the search short when he started to imagine Geralt’s folded arms and scowl at being taken advantage of. That’s how the first night came and went, cementing Jaskier’s belief that following one’s good conscience left the senses dull and understimulated, and everyone a bit unhappier.

The next morning followed the theme: every occupant left the house in a hurry, a startling contrast to the lazy loitering of yesterday. Dressed in his new fine clothes, the adjective ‘fine’ used very loosely, Jaskier was left to twiddle his thumbs and look for mundane and less mundane distractions. Within the hour he knew where to find a cloak that fitted him, even though he didn’t care for the design, and in the kitchen he assembled the ingredients for a light lunch. He could be on his way now, he realized when standing on the stoop with a found satchel over his shoulder. If he packed it to the brim with a bedroll tied on top, nothing or no one stopped him from leaving the Witcher’s dwelling for good.

A day-trip around town for reconnaissance is what he settled with. The idea turned out to be better in theory, unfortunately: what he saw that day confused him to no end. Ultimately it brought him back to the house, his thoughts racing in effort to make sense of his predicament. To his horror all his clever thoughts and halted analyses could be summarized down to one discouraging sentiment: the more he learned of his surroundings, the less he knew.

Clearly, he had to step back and think about how to proceed. Jaskier had been on the road since he was 18. The lessons he learned on said road had been hard earned and often messy, until his noble constitution, awfully useless when put to the test, made way for the practical knowledge on how to survive on his own. He spent the evening in the living room with the Witcher’s hansa. having quite a pleasant time despite fighting wooziness when Cahir introduced him to the moving art that was console games.

‘I have no idea what I’m doing,’ he informed them just in case they didn’t get the obvious. Still he graciously accepted the offered a small device with arrow-shaped buttons and rudimental symbols delicately painted on. It felt eerily weightless and slim in his hand.

Cahir sat on the edge of the sofa with his legs splayed wide and holding his own little device with a two-hand grip that made him look like he was pulling the reins of an invisible stallion. When Jaskier voiced this interpretation, Cahir nodded with a blank face as he was prone to do when Jaskier talked, sinking Jaskier’s hope for a brotherly and pleasant evening. Cahir looked at the sleek box for the game he had invited Jaskier to play, frowning in thought, then nodded once more. ‘You’re right. I’m a couch-knight. The knight of the round... coffee table. Sweet.’

The game was demanding a lot of Jaskier’s eye-to-hand coordination, and his ability to accept the strange and loud noises and flashes of color and bright lights. Other house occupants came and left the living-room area, but Jaskier hardly noticed them, strangely caught up in what ever fisstech-induced transcendent experience he was having.

‘This is very far from gwent,’ he admitted through pressed lips. He was sweating from the exhaustion of keeping up with the unreal images on the screen and Cahir’s intense, infectious competitiveness. His only saving grace was that Cahir was looking sweaty and gross too. He went to bed with a splitting headache that night, shortly after Geralt used his impressive bulk blocking the view of the tv.

Geralt had no compassion for Cahir’s untimely death seconds later. ‘Turn it off. I need to sleep.’ He was in his smallclothes and pressing a pillow to his chest in a manner that had no right to be as intimidating as his overall countenance made it out to be, nor as wordlessly exuding disdain for how Jaskier and Cahir chose to spend their evening.

Jaskier blinked listlessly at him and wondered if crying tears of blood were real or hyperbole. ‘I can sleep in here,’ he offered, throat rough from shouts he had barely noticed had slipped from his mouth.

Geralt lifted an eyebrow in a tired but clear condescending manner. ‘And I would like nothing more, but I’m not redoing my bed for you to play games all night. Scoot.’

Jaskier was offended by principle and secretly grateful.

The decision to remain at least another day in the Witcher’s dwelling had Jaskier in a chipper mood the following morning. It was a sensible thing to build up his knowledge of the area and plan his provisions accordingly. Looking too far ahead made him anxious, but life on the road had taught Jaskier a cure for that: he should focus on the small things, the easily fixable things, until the anxiety invoked by the facing of the unexplored, wide blue yonder subsided. Small acts of kindness would also suffice; perhaps a small gift of gratitude to his host before he left.

The red slipper Jaskier had lost the other day were still abandoned somewhere in the woods, that much he picked up by Chireadan’s pout and Geralt’s short ‘I don’t know where it went. I’ll buy you a new pair’. And Jaskier’s toothbrush which he whittled the same morning was wilted now, so the errands to the woods stacked up nicely.

He brought lunch with him in his satchel and, wise from experience, made sure to lace up his own boots before he ventured outside.

The forest was a lot more different compared to the town. Finally, Jaskier could breathe without feeling like he was choking on the smoky air or by his own tensed-up muscles. He whistled quietly as he followed a small path strewn with pine needles, and was quickly charmed by the tiny displays of local flora. If he had one of his notebooks he would’ve begun a catalogue of the lichens and burgeon berries – if he spent months here he could go back regularly and check on nature’s progress, adding to his observations. It was thrilling that some of these specimens looked perfectly like the specimens he was used to seeing, and some of them were entirely new.

A red slipper—now where might he find a red slipper in this viridescent wilderness? He had followed one of these narrow trails to the road the other day, and kicked off his slipper (a warranted act, he might add) somewhere in the proximity to a collection of large rocks. It was just, there were a lot of trails here, some man-made and others made by wild animals, their current presence undisclosed. When travelling Jaskier preferred to buy himself a ride on a carriage or he bought a horse of his own when possible. Nowadays it wasn’t advisable to travel without a safe-conduct of some sort, civil war brewing and all which meant all kinds of close-range dangers for the lone Noble. Jaskier despised the warmonger mentality of the land (and the Queen) for many reasons but one petty reason he rarely disclosed was that it prevented him from fulfilling a boyhood dream of his: to venture through the forests and untouched valleys alone; to be the first to encounter a field of flowers and to hear the distant song of a creature straight from the pages of his children’s stories.

Reality didn’t work out like that, Jaskier had known for a long time. There were no gentle souls with good intentions waiting in the woods to greet him, and a lot of life-threatening predicaments in which his Summa cum laude degree couldn’t save him. Which was why, when he heard the snapping of dry twigs in the faraway thicket, he halted his steps and listened with the vigilance of a small herbivore.

Common people who weren’t loaded with weapons and a death wish didn’t stroll through the woods unconcerned, was the general consensus. So far the only Leachen-like creature Jaskier had encountered in this particular forest was a displeased Witcher, but you wouldn’t know what was trailing you, considering you for dinner before it had you by the throat, now would you?

He walked slower now, enabling his gaze to continuously scout the thin gaps between the trees. A rustle of rock hitting rock was what had him stopping anew. It was an unusual sound to his untrained ears, but could very well be explained away by a small rock losing friction on a slope and falling on top of another rock; a deer might have caused it; a harmless grass-snake. Jaskier nodded to himself and continued walking, which much have been the equivalence of a jinx because three steps later the rock-hitting sound, now sounding like a _slap!-slap!_ was distinct enough to freeze him to the spot.

Someone was preparing a fire, of course, using flint and a handful of grass. Of course. Jaskier shook off the chilling tingle he felt down his spine. He wasn’t alone in the forest, but that didn’t bother him. As long as he kept out of the stranger’s way there would be no trouble here.

He turned ninety degrees to his right and walked, fastening his pace now but not wanting to draw attention to himself. He was unarmed, he remembered, the elegant but sharp knife he carried disposed of by the Witcher in that awful establishment. A bit sullen over how he’d been threated he stopped and looked towards the source of the sound, just to get his point across. The trees were all pine in warm, rusty colors and stood quite wide apart to not encroach on each other’s canopies. He should’ve been able to spot the smoke from the fire but he didn’t.

Curious, he strode over to a heap of higher ground for a coign of vantage.

Abruptly, the clatter – or was it a heavy branch, breaking? Now with the added sound of high-pitched screams? – warned him to re-think his action; loud enough for Jaskier to instantly take cover under his arm, his body assuming that the threat was coming from above. The problem was, as he suspected when looking down on the moss-covered boulder he stood on, that the ruckus came from below.

Another chill ran up his spine for unknown reasons, and his heart made its heavy presence known in his chest. Should he step down from the boulder? Where was he, perched on top of a monster’s den? He cursed quietly and wondered in which direction he came. His instincts told him to run back to the house; to take the straightest path possible.

He walked swiftly to get as much distance from the rock formation as possible, no longer caring that he was heard for miles because the predator out there obviously knew everything there was to know about him already. To hammer in the message another loud crack vibrated in the air forcing him to turn back from the hint of a trail he was about to follow. Whatever this thing was it was large and on the prowl, he concluded, because how else was it able to intercept him?

Was he walking in a circle? He took off in the opposite direction, leaving the trail entirely. Oh, how he wished he was in the middle of a road right now, where he at least could see what he was dealing with. Something was clearly travelling parallel to him but out of sight: every tenth step or so from Jaskier the creature made it’s presence known by another snap of twigs or sending pebbles to tumble.

He ran, capable of no rational thought, and reached the garden behind the house a trembling mess. He jumped the low wicket and let himself into the house through the kitchen door. His fingers were slippery and trembling as he turned the small key in the lock, and he allowed himself to press his heated forehead to the glass. In the other end of the garden, a large shadow slipped back behind the trees, to high up to be earth-bound.

‘Right,’ Jaskier whispered. The only sound in the empty house was the sound of his own wheezing lungs. He brushed leaves and twigs from his person, his hands trembling but seeking re-assurance by feeling the pressure of his own body. ‘Right.’

It was not his first encounter with a predator and wouldn’t be his last. The upsetting thing was how he had felt when it went after him; the discomforting feeling of being chased down by something more cunning and sinister than a bear or a wolf – it had played with him with various tricks and he didn’t care for that at all. Nothing made sense. How come the Witcher didn’t slay a monstrous creature living in his own woods? Jaskier muttered curses to calm himself down enough to move from the door. He chose a kitchen knife for protection that he knew wouldn’t do him much good and considered setting up camp on the second floor of the house, in case this particular monster didn’t climbed stairs.

A foolish thought. Instead, his feet took him in the direction of Geralt’s room. He shut the door behind him, knowing a long time would go by before he felt comfortable about opening it. He figured he’d be forgiven for examining the Witcher’s possessions more thoroughly once he had explained the morning he was having. Jaskier wasn’t sure of what the rest of the house occupants had to offer in manner of protection, but taking the legends into consideration Geralt was bound to keep something pointy and deadly hidden in his drawers.

Would he have asked first, if he had a choice? Jaskier pondered this as he emptied the chest of drawers (no luck) and continued on to the walk-in wardrobe, where boxes were stacked from floor to ceiling and the air smelled acrid of dirty laundry. He was coaxing a box out from where it was trapped under a collapsed coat and nearly missed the sound of the front door opening and closing.

It wasn’t a heavy door, but the sound of someone pulling it shut was distinct enough. Jaskier fumbled with the box, pushing it back in place and wondered who might have forsaken their day’s work and come home early – who was the lovely darling who realized they couldn’t be without his company? He hesitated just a breath before opening the door and entering the hallway. _Alone_ was a petrifying state to be in for Jaskier. _Not alone_ seemed better on most accounts. He sounded eager as he called out a greeting, letting out a frustrated sigh when he didn’t find a single soul in the hall. The ground floor was far from a maze – he could see most of the kitchen and the common area, and no one was there. Had someone slipped past him up the stairs?

He was about to look up and search the ceiling for clues, when a shadowy movement in his peripheral vision alerted him to stay put. There was something already up there, not _above_ the ceiling, but using its talons to creep directly under it. It moved quietly, but not entirely silent. Jaskier swallowed dryly, the sound his own throat made almost making him miss the subtle _click-click-click_ as the creature moved to a position directly above his head.

The shadow descended, and Jaskier threw himself towards safety: in the direction for which he came. He let out a shout as he was caught by long talons and flung. He landed hard on his side and in desperation twisted in the death-grip, rolling on his back. A slender, almost skeletal face was staring down at him through blackened eyes, snarling wetly through a mouth of sharp, thin teeth; Jaskier knew those teeth would slice through his musculature like a spoon through melted butter. The creature huffed, a lob of drool landing on Jaskier’s cheek, and lowered its face down to Jaskier’s straining neck.

Jaskier’s mouth fell open in a silent cry as a canine scraped below his ear. He couldn’t move, seeing as the creature carded its long, skeletal fingers through his hair. ‘A disgrace. You should let me cut it,’ the creature hissed in an unexpectedly conversational, human manner.

‘What?’ Jaskier relaxed his neck-muscles to allow the creature to rearrange his hair without getting his fingers hopelessly entangled.

The hideous features on the creature’s face slowly rearranged as well, cheeks plumping and jaw shortening – the bottomless hunger bleeding from the creature’s eyes until with a pang in his chest Jaskier recognized the aloof look of Regis the barber-surgeon looking down at him. And he had the nerve to look like he had merely won a tussle, seconds after retreating his fangs from Jaskier’s throat. Jaskier was at a loss for a proper response: here he was eye to eye with a monster from the tales, also known as the close friend of a Witcher. _How long do I have left before you kill me?_ He wanted to ask, but instead he said: ‘Does Geralt know what you are?’

Regis used his thump to wipe the corner of his mouth. Jaskier kept expecting him to use a handkerchief. ‘You catch on quickly, or is that me being optimistic? Geralt cannot know that I’m the perfect opposite of a twenty-nine-year-old property owner with a medical degree. The fifth medial degree I have acquired so far. But he doesn’t need to know that.’

He retreated enough for Jaskier to push himself to a sitting position, his back against the wall. They had landed in the entrance to the living room. Jaskier hadn’t even registered the change in direction as Regis, apparently, caught him like he was nothing more than a rabbit in a pasture. Jaskier rubbed his scalp, where Regis nails had left a burn. “What is this about? What kind of monster grooms their prey before they eat them?’

Regis clicked his teeth together in demonstration. ‘I’ll drink your blood until you’re a shriveled vessel of the old you. There’s a difference.’

Jaskier glared. ‘There’s no difference of importance from where I see it because I would be dead!’

Regis narrowed his eyes. ‘As good as dead. I could nurse you back to health and do it all over again.’ Jaskier didn’t answer. Regis clicked his tongue. ‘You shouldn’t antagonize someone who’s been successfully disposed of bodies for centuries. Just a thought.’ He stood up and brushed imagined crinkles from his sweater and dress-pants. How he managed to look so immaculate despite what had transpired was beyond understanding.

‘Did you chase me through the forest?’ Jaskier wanted no lose strings and may bes. He felt betrayed, even though he had known Regis for only a few days. A demand for an apology was on the tip of his tongue, irrational but justified.

‘No. That would be the security system.’ Regis didn’t sound apologetic at all. In fact, he loomed over Jaskier with an air of intimidation that Jaskier had only encountered with his father. ‘I warned you not to let your presence be known here, Jaskier. That includes the woods. I realize I should’ve been clearer by stating the terms for your stay, but I wanted to see what you would do when left unattended.’

He held out a slender hand for Jaskier to use to pull himself from the floor. Jaskier looked back, the irrational rage burning hotter than the fear for his life. Regis seemed unmoved by the display of defiance, already tired of the conversation.

‘I’m still not sure what your purpose is and who sent you. Are you a danger to the boys, to Milva?’

Jaskier shook his head. It was unwise entering an argument with a monster, but it wasn’t as if he had other means of defense. ‘Who are you to accuse me of… carnage, when you’re the…’ he licks his lips, ‘you’re a vampire, aren’t you?’ At least he would have the privilege to know what ended his life.

Regis tsk:ed. He looked almost smug. ‘I suppose I am to the uneducated.’

Something worse than a vampire, than. Darker. Ancient. Jaskier’s gaze swept the room—what killed a vampire? Stake through the heart? Salt? Beheading? He was a bard, not a knight, and what was known of vampires was buried in contradicting witness statements and ever-changing wives’ tales. Vampires was considered a hypernym used to refer to a number of creatures that thrive on blood, or their victims' life force, or both. A vampire, or upir, he read somewhere, was a dead person brought to life by Chaos. Having lost its first life it enjoys its second life during the night hours.

‘The vampire leaves its grave by the light of the moon,’ Jaskier recited from memory, searching for a reaction in Regis’ face, ‘and only under its light may it act, assailing sleeping maidens or young swains. You feast on them in their sleep.’ He shuddered. Regis looked heavy-lidded at Jaskier, a smirk playing in the corner of his mouth. Jaskier cursed. ‘That’s pure codswallow, isn’t it? What else is a complete waste of my study hours in obscure libraries?’

‘You shouldn’t rely on dusty parchments for information, Jaskier. Those books were written by humans who weren’t dry behind their ears even in old age.’

‘I love how you dismiss an entire species,’ Jaskier muttered.

Regis tilted his head curiously, tapping a finger to his cheek in the same manner he’d done before offering Jaskier a shave. ‘We do have a penchant for swains sleeping in our beds. If you don’t mind the simple analogy, I’d say it’s like being served breakfast in bed.’

Jaskier blinked, to overwhelmed to decide whether he should laugh or cry. ‘Fuck you. You wouldn’t.’

‘I would, if you were to be exposed as a rat; an assassin; a threat. I wouldn’t hesitate to rip your spine through your throat and suck the marrow from your bones.’

Jaskier was reconsidering this conversation. His muscles were stiff from sitting for so long and he felt the after-effects of terror running through his veins. Veins that Regis wouldn’t hesitate to empty. Suppressing a dry-heave and with support of the wall he rose to standing. ‘I will leave—I was preparing to leave. You don’t need to bother.’

Regis was crowding him again, forcing him to stumble back over the carpet. Regis planted his hands firmly on Jaskier’s shoulders and pressed him down until he was sitting on the coffee table. ‘You will remain under this roof until I say different.’

He took Jaskier’s chin to prevent him from averting his gaze. The barber-surgeon’s smile was as sincerely apologetic as Regis could muster under the pressure he was under—regretfully Jaskier wouldn’t remember it afterwards. ‘I see you are immune to my unsubtle threats, bard, and I shouldn’t have underestimated you. You are a poet after all, capable of grasping the nuances in life. I wish I were free to divulge some of those to you.’

He leaned in further, luring the bard’s flitting gaze to sever the thread to the owner’s will, and stare deeply and obediently into the vampire’s deceptively human eyes.

‘I have a knack for persuasion that I regret to introduce you to. Unfortunately, you won’t remember –‘

By the end of his short speech the bard’s gaze was blank, his mind dulled and unresponsive. Regis sighed and carefully swept a lock in place over Jaskier’s forehead. Recipients of his charm reacted in a wide range from nauseous but cognizant, to convulsing and losing control of their bowels, to a total failure of their respiratory system and imminent death, depending on their constitution and their species. Jaskier seemed to simply turn still and sleepy. Regis had no idea how long the bard was going to stay like that. If the others came home before Jaskier had recuperated… it would mean a long night of ardent work for the ancient vampire. He might have to call in reinforcements, and it would be quite embarrassing.

Regis picked up the remote control and turned on the tv. He put the remote in Jaskier’s limp hand. There. The least embarrassing resolution he could think of at the moment.

‘Don’t watch too much tv, dear,’ he patted Jaskier’s shoulder. ‘I hear it rots your brain.’


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt facing demons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know how I feel about this chapter. Writing angst is hard but I needed to push Geralt in a certain direction. He's so close, you guys, SO CLOSE. 
> 
> Warnings in the end note.

Geralt lowers his phone, where the screen has returned to desktop background. It’s all very dignified, even though he’s acutely aware that Milva is still smirking at him across the kitchen. The glint of mischief in her eyes are close to the smugness a big sister feels before teasing her brother over his crush, and that’s not something he wants to suffer through.

He shows his phone, to demonstrate that he’s at no fault here. “He doesn’t know how to use a phone.”

Milva hums, mimicking him with uncanny accuracy. “And you gave him yours?”

Milva 1-0. “Yes.”

“And you’re saying he hasn’t the slightest clue how to use it?” Milva glances curiously at the phone in Geralt’s hand, that remains silent. Jaskier has obviously not figured out how to make another call. Or he’s dead.

“Shouldn’t you be introducing him to technology in smaller steps? He could be at the start of a transition period,” Milva chimes in, sounding uncharacteristically sharp. She swills the rest of her tea and puts the cup down on the counter with a bit too much force behind the movement, signaling that’s she’s on the warpath.

“Transition period?” Geralt continues to scroll through his album, distracted by the thought of asking Hazel, the youngest addition to Kaer Morhen, to prank-call Jaskier pretending to be God, or something with equal entertainment value.

“I watched Unorthodox last night. Got me thinking,” Milva says, “You might want to consider that he’s escaped a religious cult.”

Geralt snorts. When he looks up Milva is not wearing the carefree, relaxed expression she usually wears when they banter.

Her eyes are hard slates, old sorrow lurking beneath them as she rests them on Geralt’s.

“It’s not a finished thought,” Milva says. “But I got to wonder. Jaskier is Esty, Esty is Jaskier. There’s a lot of girls _and_ boys living off the grid, or being forced into marriage. It’s hard facts. They are persecuted by their family members to the point where a hidden identity is the only option, or they are killed in the name of _honor_.” She makes the most morbid air-quotes Geralt has ever seen.

“Not following.”

Milva holds up a hand to prevent him from protesting. She counts off on her fingers, smiling apologetically—so she’s aware of how far-fetched it sounds, at least.

“He can’t tell the difference between a phone and a black-board. He talks about portals and magical one-night-stands non stop, like a fifteen-year-old virgin writing fanfic. His imagination is running haywire because he’s probably never had those kind of experiences in real life. He’s Stephanie Meyers. Oh god, he’s Stephanie Meyers, bless her soul. Worse yet—he’s me, if I had stuck around home for another year.”

Milva never brings up her childhood if it isn’t used as a deadly weapon powerful enough to win the debate. It’s the equivalence of a nuke to a mosquito, and has only been observed twice since freshman year.

“Cahir told me he had no clue what a tv was. His confusion went far beyond not knowing how to play a videogame. He probably has years of pent up frustrations inside and gets his facts about sex from his aunt’s Harlequin.”

Geralt’s voice softens. “Milva. Can we talk about this when you’re not late for work?”

She has this hurt expression on her face, chin up instead of accepting the out he’s giving her. “You of all people should know what it’s like to cut ties to your family.” Her eyes are huge—she knows she’s firing off words that’s meant to inflict pain; to spread salt in wounds that aren’t even close to healing.

They stare at each other in a silent battle of will.

“I haven’t…” Geralt hates that he’s defending himself instead of steering the conversation to safer ground. “Lambert comes over all the time.”

Milva scoffs. “You haven’t visited your dad in two years. You didn’t speak two sentences to me in the same number of months after you moved in—this pale, non-verbal, passive-aggressive eighteen-year-old who I thought was going to murder me in my sleep if I bought the wrong yogurt. If Regis hadn’t assured me how harmless you were, I would’ve found somewhere else to live. Instead I gave you the benefit of a doubt. I know you must have a good goddamn reason for ghosting your family all these years. You know about mine. What makes you think Jaskier hasn’t lived through something similar? Something worse?”

Geralt doesn’t know when this conversation became about their families? Milva is bringing up a time in his life he barely remembers in bits and pieces. It makes his jaw tense, his pupils dilating with the extra adrenaline rush. He stubbornly looks down to focus on Milva’s toes peeking out of her sandals, placing all his energy and anger on defining the exact shade of her nail-polish. “They are not my family. They’re foster kids,” he says automatically, like a broken record even to his own ears. A wave of guilt surges through him.

Milva laughs, her cheeks going crimson in shame. “I sound like a fucking idiot.”

It sounds inherently wrong to hear her call herself that. Milva doesn’t _do_ self-criticism. Says it does more harm than good.

“You’re not a fucking idiot… you’re just…” He shrugs, thinking about the respect he feels for her, for a number of reasons. He would list them right this second, if she needed to be reminded.

“Don’t insult my family,” he says petulantly, and the sentence feels more genuine in his mouth than the old, over-rehearsed line denouncing his siblings. He’s not mad at them. They deserved better, which must have been why Vesemir sent Geralt packing. He’s not even sure he’s mad at Vesemir – he just knows he has to keep his distance.

Why, though? Why does he feel like he’s in a purgatory 24/7? Why is he tortured by these random, unnecessary hits of life with Renfri when he isn’t even man enough to recall the details of her death?

His train-of-thought is cut short by Milva’s warm arms coming around his neck. He presses her to him in a hug that screams _longing_ and _grief_ and _shared_ _secrets_ , holding back a hiccup when he remembers that she isn’t the sister who haunts him. Milva is good for him though. They have managed to form a bond, at a glacier pace but it’s there, partly because their similar pasts and partly because they are both outdoor nerds. Milva is the one who accompanies Geralt on camping trips. Geralt is the one Milva confines in when she feels suffocated by her non-relationship with Cahir. (And in the long run Cahir is good for her, and not responsible for her intimacy issues.)

When Geralt took Jaskier home on Tuesday night and found the bedroom short of ransacked (Jaskier hadn’t even bothered to cover his tracks, loose drawers and heaps of clothes spread over the floor), Milva’s room was the room Geralt escaped to without a word. It was hard to tell which one was more confused: Jaskier left standing on the threshold scratching his head, not remembering how Geralt’s belongings ended up on the carpet, or Geralt who was the gullible fuck who just took out a sociopath on a _date_. To the Conservatory! To one of the few places he felt at home.

He hadn’t called it a date when hovering over Milva’s bed of course, but she had seen the aftermath written on his face. She removed her headphones and made room for her in the bed, so he could climb in and watch shows with her.

He told her about the kitchen knife poking out from the mess on the floor.

And the pocket/boot-knife he helped Jaskier hide.

Having lived with an abusive step-father Milva must have drawn her own conclusions, with a little help from Netflix. Geralt hugs her harder, lifting her from the floor to feel her belly-laugh vibrate against his rib-cage: “You’re such a weirdo,” he says fondly, “Of course you relate to Jaskier.”

She makes sure to land on his toes.

“Why is she relating to me?” Comes Jaskier’s light voice from the threshold.

The fact that Jaskier caused screen-damage to his phone ten seconds after being given ownership of it should throw a damper on Geralt’s mood, but perspective is the key. Jaskier sashays through the kitchen with a pace that’s a bit too brisk to not be suspicious, and Geralt realizes he’s expecting to be told off.

Milva collects her lunch and backpack from the table. “I’m sorry,” she says, “but some answers would help me sleep at night.”

“I know,” Geralt relents, not feeling it. He’s exhausted and his done questioning a guy who makes him laugh without even trying—Milva doesn’t know how rare of a person Jaskier is. He deserves a price for even sticking around.

When Geralt steps out on the backyard Jaskier isn’t immediately seen. The dork is not by the greenhouse, but he’s clearly somewhere in the over-grown permaculture mini-forest of fruit trees and shrubs. Geralt spots him standing between two tall shrubs, his back turned and staring blankly towards the forest. He mutters under his breath, kicks a tuft of grass in frustration. He seems stuck, and Geralt’s heart goes out to him. Then Jaskier heaves a big sigh, and decisively pulls down his boxers.

The lining of his borrowed boxer shorts is half-way down his calves before Geralt can react to the sight, the fabric stretched by the classical broad stance of someone—okay, Jaskier’s taking a piss now.

He’s taking a piss on Geralt’s carefully cultivated layer of decomposing cardboard, mulch and soil, defiling the innocent potatoes sprouting through the mulch. The little shit.

Geralt remains where he is, indecisive for a couple of seconds. There’s thankfully nothing too scandalous with the back of Jaskier: the sleep shirt hangs like a tent on his torso, and reaches far enough down to cover his butt thus preserving his modesty. Although not the same could be said about his pale and surprisingly hairy thighs. Geralt shields his eyes from being blinded.

He clears his throat.

Jaskier peers over his shoulder. He has feathery light, white petals from the nearby myrtle shrub stuck in his fringe, courtesy of the light morning breeze.

“What. Are. You. Doing?” Geralt enunciates, going for a mild scold. “There’s a perfectly fine, vacant bathroom inside.”

“That’s kind of you to offer, but I distinctly remember bathing last week. Can’t say I’m keen to repeat that whole ordeal,” Jaskier answers with a huff that dismisses the idea as preposterous. Then all the buzzing activity in the garden and in Geralt’s brain screech to a halt as the dork bends over and pulls up his boxers.

“It’s quite a bush you got here,” Jaskier converses, and is he winking? “I took the liberty to nourish your Berber cane. It looked positively parched.”

“Berberis.” Geralt corrects. He uses the red barberries in a jam he serves with brussel sprouts and its in excellent condition, thank you very much.

Jaskier grins. “Berber cane sound more potent, so I’m counting that as a win.”

Geralt doesn’t bite, or they will continue to correct each other for eternity. “Go inside. Have breakfast, and don’t speak to me for at least an hour.”

“As you wish, my lord.” Jaskier stumbles over the path. “Not a morning person, I see.”

“Wash your damn hands before you eat,” Geralt retorts. “Wait. Jaskier, you know how to use the bathroom, don’t you?”

Jaskier looks at him with that adorable, beseeching look that means he has no idea what someone is talking about and secretly hates to admit it. He looks like a person who puts personal pride in knowing a little bit extra about everything, and his face falls when he doesn’t.

“How do you mean?”

It hits Geralt like a brick in the face that Jaskier has been doing his “business” in the garden since the first night Geralt brought him to the house. For a _week._

***

They stand awkwardly in the bathroom, looking down at the toilet bowl.

“This is a toilet,” Geralt introduces the toilet bowl to Jaskier’s lacking cultural knowledge. “You shit in it. Understand? The toilet paper over here is for wiping your ass. Then when you’re done you do… this.” Geralt demonstratively reaches out and push the button on top.

The toilet flushes loudly and Jaskier yanks back like a startled pet.

“…Another _button_ ,” he whispers in awe, because everyone has been showing him different buttons around the house: the remote control, the microwave. Strange how everyone forgot to show him the basic workings of a modern bathroom.

Jaskier nudges the porcelain bowl with his foot. “Who empties it? A rotating schedule?”

Geralt ages another year.

***

The weather is fine, and Jaskier quickly gets the hang of texting. Geralt finds different small projects to work on in the garden; too unsettled by the talk with Milva to be social with his guest. He can’t rid the feeling that he’s much more affected by his sister’s death then he realized. Sure, he never sleeps a full night and memories of their life together hits him unbidden, which indicates that he still has some stuff to work through, but shouldn’t he at least remember the factual, basic circumstances surrounding her death? Shouldn’t he have a clear reason to avoid Kaer Morhen – year after year?

To distract himself from his own crap he uses the search engine on his phone when Jaskier is not paying attention. He doesn’t know why he has to pry in Jaskier’s business one final time. He tells himself he didn’t like the defeated look on Jaskier’s face this morning, how he was just laying there, moaning in bed. Milva’s No.1 theory is that Jaskier’s bipolar, which would mean he’s smack in the middle of a manic episode; delusional, melodramatic, and possibly self-destructive. Now Geralt doesn’t like to jump to conclusions, but there had been talk about demons in the bedroom twice, and the fact that Jaskier believes to originate from the Medieval ages has to be a therapist’s wet dream.

It doesn’t take Geralt long to find the symptom criteria for someone suffering from a manic episode, listed by the Mayo clinic:

 _Abnormally upbeat, jumpy or wired._ Check. Jaskier’s energy-levels is a lot _. Increased activity, energy or agitation._ Geralt doesn’t know what the difference is with the first symptom but, yes, Jaskier has been agitated and argumentative pretty much non stop since Geralt met him.

 _Exaggerated sense of well-being and self-confidence (euphoria)._ Maybe not that one—Jaskier seemed sad and lonely this morning. Exaggerated self-confidence? Plausible. Very plausible. He did try to flirt a barista into giving him free food, and hadn’t stopped seeking to be the center of attention since.

 _Decreased need for sleep._ Yeah, Geralt kind of has to disqualify Jaskier from that one, seeing as part of Jaskier’s sleeplessness had been caused by him.

 _Unusual talkativeness._ What could be considered unusual under these circumstances? Stupid question: It’s a yes on the unusual talkativeness.

 _Racing thoughts._ Well. No.

 _Distractibility._ Hm.

 _Poor decision-making – for example, going on buying sprees, taking sexual risks or making foolish investments._ Did dressing up in Renaissance clothes, sleeping outside for four nights straight, and later running out the door in sleep clothes and no shoes count?

He reads the paragraph below: ‘If you're like some people with bipolar disorder, you may enjoy the feelings of euphoria and cycles of being more productive. However, this euphoria is always followed by an emotional crash that can leave you depressed, worn out — and perhaps in financial, legal or relationship trouble.’

He feels suddenly like he’s a teenager again; like he’s responsible for the other foster kids without even realizing it until afterwards. His gaze finds Jaskier, safely reclined in the deck-chair, soaking up the sun on the first hot day of spring, sipping lemonade and wearing shades that makes him look like a bug. A harmless, adorable bug. He’s fine, and Geralt is a certifiable asshole for trying to diagnose him instead of, you know, _talking_ to him.

But he can’t talk to him, because then Jaskier will realize that he can do much better than Geralt. His thoughts travel to Lambert, who dropped out of high school a month after Geralt left, and Eskel, who _loved_ Renfri more than Geralt realized. He thinks of Leo, the oldest of Vesemir’s kids, and feels an inexplicable rage. He smells acrid fear. There’s a child crying who sounds like Hazel when she was younger, hurt and abandoned in a forest. It cuts off abruptly there, like running into a wall.

He’s standing in a copse, having left the left the garden without a conscious decision.

There’s a faint, breathless shout reaching him. A thick air of sunscreen and perfume, stolen from Milva’s cabinet and used excessively and incorrectly as hair-product, drifts through the trees, like a mist announcing Jaskier’s presence well in advance.

He spots Jaskier stumbling over tree roots in effort to keep up with his pace. “I don’t mean to rob the town crier out of his livelihood, but _Danger!_ I don’t want you to die, do you?!”

Geralt remains where he is, waiting for Jaskier to catch up and for his own breathing to return to an acceptable rhythm. Jaskier bats a handsy shrub from his sleeve, sidling up to him with a nose wrinkled in disapproval. “Where’s your sword? Do you want to get mauled by some… _thing?”_

“Like the Swamp thing?” Jaskier’s concern is not proportional to the wildlife population in these woods. Unless Jaskier means to protect him from a man-eating deer he doesn’t know about.

“Here, I brought you this.”

Jaskier’s holds forth the shovel Geralt used a moment ago in the garden and doesn’t budge until Geralt accepts. Jaskier tips his shades and critically rakes his gaze down Geralt’s front, before stuffing his hands down his borrowed Bermuda-shorts. He looks around shiftily. “…are we tracking it?”

He’s making no sense, as usual. Geralt realizes he has to come up with an excuse for having wandered off.

“I was looking for… rocks. I need a few more stepping-stones in the garden.” It’s more than plausible, straight from his to do-list.

Jaskier looks oddly at him, not convinced the slightest. “You’re a poor liar, but fret not. I volunteer as your squire for as long as you need me.” He rubs his neck nervously, gaze darting around the trees. “This is my first monster hunt, you know.”

“Mine too.” 

“Heh,” Jaskier’s mouth curves. “Perhaps we shouldn’t jest, under the current circumstances—” He squawks as a dry branch falls down on the path from a nearby tree.

“Can we just…” Geralt trails off, feeling a stab to his temple. The forest doesn’t even feel like his forest at the moment. The sounds of the usually lively canopies are muted, like the quieting of birds before a storm. The headache is probably the result of the low air pressure, and his own, constricted breathing. He needs to be alone for a moment. “Jaskier, head back, it’s okay.”

His voice comes out tight. He knows from experience that would be enough for most people to do as he suggests without complaints, but Jaskier is still jumping to avoid invisible thrown projectiles—hypothetical projectiles, but 50% of that contains the word projectile doesn’t it. Oh no, he’s starting to think in Jaskier logic.

“No. There’s a wraith or the likes living in this place,” Jaskier insist, picking up a small rock from the forest floor, “I’m not leaving you.”

He takes aim, like he’s a retiree playing a game of boule. The rock hits another rock with a small _clap!_ Then he engages in a full body-shudder. “Ugh. We really shouldn’t upset it...”

Geralt scoffs, “You’re not in danger,” and almost chokes on how wrongfully bitter the words taste in his mouth. He imagines he can _smell_ Jaskier’s unease; not nearly hidden under the perfume—he can _sense_ the threat Jaskier believes is there. It’s rising his hackles; giving his hypervigilance a job to do.

There’s another vicious stab to his temple, and suddenly the silence is replaced by a clamorous chaos: an orchestra of sounds rushing in at full volume: a bird’s thrill cutting through the air like a fire-alarm; every scratch, chirp and rustle of the forest echoing in his brain. He can hear his own heart beating heavy and sluggishly in his ears, and swears he can somehow pick out a second, racing heartbeat originating from Jaskier. The migraine is a fact, distorting his senses. Sunlight pierces his vision like a rain of razor-sharp needles—causing an explosion of light to bleed to the edges of his visual field: reaching the sky and the forest floor, drenching it in a vibrant amber tone.

Geralt grunts, fighting the instinct to rip the aura clean from his retinas with his fingernails. He goes down on one knee, every detail in the moss is standing out enhancing the feeling of being swept up in a bad LCD-trip: the sheen of every leaf of a thicket of blueberries illuminated; the gaping, vacant space between individual bud scales screaming in pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mention of religious and/or strict upbringings. And because this is a fic of clichés: a panic attack that's not really a panic attack.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I need a lot of your cheapest, strongest alcohol."  
> \- Geralt of Rivia

Insects whirring like jet engines (or ps4:s) should not be part of a migraine (A migraine. This is not an anxiety attack, shut up, Lambert!) but still: Geralt’s eardrums have been reduced to needle cushions bombarded with sounds he shouldn’t be physically able to detect, and he might be hyperventilating. He is aware of the fact that he’s squeezing his eyes shut to escape from the sensation of his pupils having an epileptic seizure, and behind the blinding pain there’s the awareness that Jaskier is watching him unravel. The embarrassment cuts deep. Geralt blindly searches the undergrowth for something preferably sharp to hold on to until the pain subsides. His grasping right hand finds another hand that he suspects Jaskier is offering.

“Here,” Jaskier murmurs, closer to Geralt’s ear than anticipated. He must have fallen to his knees too, somehow. “It’s all right.”

He’s close enough to be a solid form evaporating heat, engulfing Geralt’s space and providing a new focus. Under the sunscreen Jaskier went all out on there’s the lingering warmth of the sun on his skin, and a natural male fragrance that’s just nice; earthy, uninhibited, and paradoxically comforting, mixed with the tart lemonade, now drying in the corners of his mouth. There’s also a hitch in Jaskier’s inhale, which means Geralt must have crushed his hand without meaning to.

He reluctantly relaxes his fingers and opens his eyes, staring at Jaskier’s ear, “Sorry,” he mumbles with his mouth one inch from Jaskier’s earlobe. He pulls back, mortified that he practically _buried_ his face in the crook of Jaskier’s neck. With no regard to Jaskier’s personal space at all. “…migraine.”

Jaskier’s face slowly comes into focus. Geralt lets go of Jaskier’s hand in full, opting at rubbing the subsiding pain from his brow. They are sitting in front of each other like two boy scouts having a heart to heart under the sun. Jaskier tugs at his collar with an wavering smile. “Migraine? I don’t know—“

Geralt scoffs, feeling the sweet soreness beneath his ribs as his lungs relax. “—What that is, I know.”

He registers the cornflower blue in Jaskier’s eyes, which looked at him with sympathy a moment ago but now not so much.

“No. I know what a migraine is.” Jaskier clarifies, “I just don’t know how to help you when you’re hurt.”

Geralt opens his mouth to tell him he already _did_ , but Jaskier goes on babbling: “The only cure I know of is the recipe for depression. You want to hear it, Geralt?”

“Sure.”

“Sauerkraut! You eat a pot of sauerkraut, drink a jug of sour milk and the depression is the least of your worries. Sometimes for a very long time,” Jaskier grins. “I contemplated joining the Cintran forces as a field surgeon when I was a boy, but alas, I cannot tend to a sprained ankle without accidently amputating…a finger. Or something. My heart wasn’t in it.” His restless fingers plucks a few blueberry sprigs next to his folded shins.

“Then why did you want to do that in the first place?” Geralt asks, hoping Jaskier will continue to distract him with tidbits from his absurd backstory crafted in the small hours of the morning on a cheap laptop in the dorm room that hasn’t seen its boarder in two weeks time. He doesn’t know if he can stand up yet without feeling like his head will split in two.

Jaskier shrugs a shoulder.

“Eh. When I confronted myself in the mirror, I confessed that being on the battlefield would expose me to a lot of good stories. My second realization was that I was of greater use to the soldiers when I bought them ale in the aftermath of battle and recorded our conversation.” He gives Geralt’s knee a friendly pat, as if an idea just struck. “I could do that for you, immortalize your adventures through song!”

“You,” Geralt says with feeling, “are decidedly weird.”

“I don’t know what that is,” Jaskier lies loftily. He picks up a pinecone and throws it at Geralt’s chest with a wry grin.

Geralt holds his gaze, stone-cold ignoring the tiny thud to his chest, and the heavier, not so insignificant thud of his heart. “I think you do.”

Jaskier glare at him for a drawn-out moment, not unkindly. Not platonically either, if the way his gaze falls to Geralt’s lips is anything to go by and how he worries his own lips when he does it. On the other hand, the sudden intimacy could be easily explained by their bodies’ proximity not sixty seconds ago and the huge amounts of leftover adrenaline giving Geralt the urge to do something stupid. Like push Jaskier to the ground and kiss him senseless, until he’s too exhausted to walk home without a walking stick and GPS. Like having Jaskier panting underneath him and then wandering around the woods for two hours hunting down a decent phone reception.

Geralt’s sexual fantasies are weird.

They weren’t weird until Jaskier entered them, though. Not weird the sense that—

A shrill scream echoes through the copse of trees surrounding them.

Jaskier’s eyes grows impossibly large. “Oh dear. Oh fucking dear.” He scrambles to his feet, not before Geralt is up and faced in the direction of the cry. Jaskier tucks himself close to his side. “Perhaps we should get out of here?”

_Clap-clap clap-clap-clap-clap-clap_

Geralt turns to follow the sound of rattling rocks as it travels past the trees in a half-circle, Jaskier hanging on to his sleeve and pulling him further away. He can locate the sound but not see the source of it despite the short distance and the wide berth between each pine. He’s never encountered anything similar and the implication pricks his neck. His headache is pulsing behind his forehead like a caged animal, but he ignores it in favor of pushing Jaskier towards the conglomeration of rocks. It doesn’t look high enough to protect Jaskier from a wildcat or bear, but at least it’s higher ground.

_Clap-clap clap_

“Where the fuck is it?!” Jaskier swirls around like he’s trying to hit a piñata without a stick. “Come on now, show your face, you coward!”

The animal screeches, prompting Jaskier to shove his fingers into his ears. There’s a sharp thud, as if it has landed on the rock Geralt was planning to position Jaskier on. Jaskier, who spots something on the ground and leaves Geralt’s side to pick it up. He points accusingly at the rock with the retrieved shovel: “You see that, that rock that looks like a table? It’s hiding behind it. I saw it!”

Geralt gapes at him, because honestly, he hasn’t seen a thing himself. His gaze lands on the garden tool in Jaskier’s hands. “So, what’s your plan? Are you going to scream at it until it goes away or whack it over the head with the shovel?”

“Ah, the sarcasm is back,” Jaskier huffs with perfectly matched irony, “My worries for your health is allayed, thank gods.”

“At least I didn’t have to force down your sauerkrauts.”

Jaskier pulls down the corner of his mouth as his mind goes straight to the gutter. “Don’t be silly; you’d love my sauerkrauts.”

Shouting and banging pots might actually work, though, if the wild animal is skittish of humans. Geralt is impressed: Jaskier greatly exceeds the expectations he set for him in his jerk off fantasies. That’s a positive thing, as if Jaskier needed another thing going for him to make him more attractive. Focus, Geralt berates himself, but it’s difficult to stay unaffected by the sight of Jaskier who turns the shovel in his hands with nimble fingers, biceps bulging accordingly, and frowns like the easily distracted geek he is (he’s like the perfect package) as he reads off the wood handle:

“What have we here…an inscription? In the ancient Dwarven language, if I’m not mistaken.” He squints, “ _May the whoresons perish._ Why, that is just rude.”

Geralt makes a noise. He had no idea that was what the inscription meant, but there’s a hint of recognition in the back of his mind. He hadn’t even _noticed_ those runes before. He feels oddly emboldened by the crude words, as if it has been uttered by one of his friends. “I remember it as _Kill the motherfuckers_ , plain and simple. Hand it over.”

“I beg you pardon?” Jaskier raises his eyebrows at Geralt, who holds out his hand. Jaskier, after an inappropriate time of lengthy and petty consideration, trusts the shovel into his hands, “Shovels are not reading material, I agree. They are strictly for whacking. And digging; goes without saying.”

He gives Geralt a light, encouraging smack on his butt. “Now, you go kill that thing, my brave Witcher friend.”

“Don’t,” Geralt gives him a withering look, then falters as he feels a blush spread, “you know… do that again.”

Jaskier clears his throat, grin faltering. “I—uhm. No, of course.”

Geralt lets the shovel spin in his hands, feeling its weight much like he’d prepare to hit a baseball. He hasn’t handled a weapon in a long time—it’s like coming home. To have something in his hands that even remotely tempts him to move the way they trained in the paddock behind the barn feels incredible. He runs his thumb across the blunt edge of the shovelhead. It’s not a sword, but it will get the job done. He would welcome a bloody mess, just for the satisfaction of finally utilizing the adrenaline surging through his muscles. He _wants_ that thing to attack; wants to lure it out in the open.

Milva would disapprove. Animal cruelty. Geralt’s not like that—he wouldn’t. He shakes his head to clear his mind. The remnants of the migraine rustles in his skull, providing him with flashes of Eskel, his older brother, leisurely circling him with a raised sword; Vesemir and Leo as the seniors watching from the fence. He couldn’t afford to be distracted then—he can’t now. He’s just. Confused. And distracted.

“I’ll be reciting ancient Dwarven insults over here if you need me!” Jaskier calls loudly.

Geralt stalks closer to the stone table, indecisive. In his head Eskel is advising him to retreat to a better position; Leo barks at him to charge damn it and Vesemir is just there on one knee regarding him with pain behind his cataractic globes clouding his vision. Geralt shakes off the vision.

Jaskier bounces on his heels. “You’re doing splendid!”

Geralt holds back a sigh. “Shut up.”

He raises the shovel.

 _“Shut up!”_ A burring echo of his own words retorts from behind the rock.

Geralt freezes.

Why is this familiar?

He lowers his weapon. “…Marshal?”

A squawk. “ _Marshal! Fuck off! I’m reading!”_

It’s not a carnivore, it’s a macaw. Geralt hasn’t had a conversation with this particular macaw in more than a year, not since he managed to find a better suited home for him, but he’d recognize Field marshal Windbag’s offensive vocabulary anywhere. He should know—he raised him since Marshal was a scrawny abandoned bird baby gnawing at his fingers.

Geralt reaches for the rock, hoping he didn’t get this wrong or he’ll lose a hand. “What are you doing out here, you little rascal? Zoltan didn’t treat you right?”

There’s a soft scraping on the rock. An aquiline nose pokes out—a beak, graphite grey, followed by the misshaped head of a bird. For a moment, the bird head hangs suspended freely in the air, unattached to a body, and a cold chill runs up Geralt’s spine. This is straight out of his nightmares—along with Vesemir’s declining health and flashes of teared flesh. Then gradually the macaw’s plumage takes the color of the schist of the stone. A silhouette emerges, before gradually shifting to a gleaming, healthy cobalt blue of a hyacinth macaw.

_“Zoltan,”_ the bird drawls, pitifully, and lands on Geralt’s wrist. Its wingspan reaches about three feet, no more. He looks like a perfectly healthy bird, with one glaring exception.

Geralt touches the bird’s wing in a daze, as he processes the fact that his baby not only is fully grown but was momentarily _invisible_. He might suffer from a stroke, or head trauma. Jaskier might have hit him in the head with the shovel and this is the result.

“Uhm,” Jaskier says, brushing down his trousers and checks that there hasn’t been an accident, “Are you killing it with kindness?”

The bird waggles up Geralt’s arm and nuzzles its downy head under his chin. “ _Asshole,”_ it crows affectionately.

“Aw,” Jaskier coos, “So you _do_ know each other.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes my chapters are short. Because I'm an inconsistent asshole. :)


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who’s got the brain damage now, huh?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Work+summer heat+buying camping gear (how does everything fit inside of the backpack?) equals me posting late. 
> 
> Side note: If I were to write a 20k Geraskier set in game fake-medieval times and most likely told as a fairytale for a mature audience (smut, I mean smut), what would you like to see between Ger and Jaskier/Dandelion?

Jaskier, born without a sense self-preservation and accepting of this fact, is prepared to sit down in the grass and enjoy the sight of a Witcher interacting peacefully with a monster bird.

Geralt looks at the squawking monster with a burning intensity, like a snake about to strike, but his face is a face of youthful awe and his movements are relaxed as he rocks the little blighter perched on his wrist. The bird tilts his head curiously, and Geralt mimics it, a small smile playing on his lips.

“Where’s my journal,” Jaskier pats his pockets, efficiently ending the reverie.

The bird consequently tells Jaskier to ‘shove it up the ass’ and vaporizes from Geralt’s arm.

So that happened. Geralt’s arm is still in the air when what was once an affectionate macaw screeched a final insult at his face before it went translucent and flew away. The ache in Geralt’s chest settles, now when he’s staring at an empty sky and not a pet that used to eat his textbooks. He calls for it, but his voice doesn’t carry and there’s no response. 

He oscillates between acceptance and brushing the encounter off as a hallucination, which is harder than he thought it would be. A bird went invisible two inches from his face, not exactly ambiguous evidence. What’s left now though is the sense memory of the midnight-blue macaw’s wings brushing his back, the pinpricks of bird feet left in his wrist and the urge to laugh at being told by a bird to shut up. As he rubs his other hand over the pattern the pinpricks disappear, leaving nothing more than a fleck of blood the size of a needle-prick, or a mosquito bite. Actually, when he calls his brothers to go over what happened they will call him an idiot, a drunk, and/or tease him for mistaking a mosquito for a fucking bird.

“We aren’t even near Florida,” he mumbles distraught, before getting another eyeful of Jaskier’s latest summer outfit and questioning his statement. “Did you… did you see the bird?”

“What bird?” Jaskier raises his eyebrows and wiggles them for full effect, laughing as Geralt’s face gets caught between a frown and fear. “Oh, that bird? What a vile thing.”

Geralt stalks closer, inspecting Jaskier with the same intensity he turned on the fucking bird. “You saw how the bird disappeared before it flew away? You saw when it… how it went invisible?”

“If it’s invisible it would be impossible for me to… ow, ow, yes, all right I saw it.” He brushes the spot on his arm where Geralt pinched him. A Witcher _pinched_ him! How juvenile. 

Geralt takes the shovel in one hand and nudges Jaskier to get him moving. He has no physical evidence of the supernatural, and the giddy faces Jaskier shoots at him during their walk does _not_ help their claim of credibility. It’s a disheartening choice: Either A. Geralt had a migraine-induced hallucination of a former pet, stranger things have happened, or B. the boy he’s thinking of kissing is a homeless person he met a week ago who for some crazy, undisclosed reason spiked his glass of lemonade. He looks sternly at Jaskier; might as well ask.

“Aren’t you going to monologue on how you finally got me alone and now you’re going to spread my body parts in the woods?” It’s a reasonable question under the circumstances.

Jaskier looks surprisingly content as he trudges along, the aftermath of whatever the hell went down in the copse present in a slight tremor in his hands and the _oh shit!_ excitement permeating his whole aura. He wipes his fringe back from where it’s been sticking to his forehead. “Eh,” he shrugs off the accusation of premeditated murder, “It’s too hot.”

Geralt nods sagely. Yes, Jaskier would be too lazy to dismember and bury him. He would hire a contractor for the menial job and be caught by the police before the project was finished.

“Unless!” Jaskier holds up a finger. “Which ones of your body parts do you want me to spread, so to speak?” He goes for a seductive wink, and nearly collides with a tree.

Geralt pulls Jaskier back to the trail—and the subject. “Unless, you’re an actor hired to make me look like an idiot.” He scans the tree branches for cameras. If he simultaneously keeps an eye out for Marshal, that’s his business. Marshal is a dumb bird. When did he learn how to hunt for food and keep himself safe in the forest? Where did he sleep? 

“I’m wounded that you would accuse me of such a senseless thing,” Jaskier whines, circling back to the dismemberment.

“You did chase after me through the woods with a shovel.” Geralt thinks of his favorite guilty pleasure movie and can’t keep his grin off his face. It’s scary how vividly he can picture Jaskier eliciting a war cry and diving head-first into a wood-chipper because his target bent down and made him miss.

He wonders if Jaskier would like to watch that movie with him. 

“To save you, you ungrateful oaf,” Jaskier says and fist-bumps the air. “I succeeded in my heroic endeavor!” 

“Thanks.” Geralt bumps Jaskier’s shoulder more firmly this time, sending him careering head-first into the underbrush. 

***

When it comes down to it—when Geralt is alone in his room on Friday night—nothing he saw or thought he saw in the woods matter because it’s what he _didn’t_ see that keeps him riled up. He sits down on his desk-chair with the phone in his hand, grateful for the fact that Cahir suggested a barbecue tonight and has everyone busy in the backyard. Vesemir’s number is still on top of his list of recently missed calls.

 _I can’t do this over a phone call,_ he thinks, the thought an echo of countless times he sat like this and almost, almost called his dad. Now he has a reason to call. _‘Hi, dad, I can’t remember how my sister died—you sure she’s dead? Okay, just checking. Talk to you in another four years.’_

His index finger hovers over the screen like it’s been stopped by an electrical current; the taste of bile rises in his throat. The nausea doesn’t ease up until he has put the phone down on the desk. He shakes the lingering tremor out of his hand—this is not normal reactions. Why can’t he just call his father and admit there’s something disturbingly wrong with him—that he don’t think he can handle this on his own?

The drive to the farm isn’t far, a few hours with Roach and he’d be there around midnight. Lambert makes the trip now and then, when he’s got a date in the city or when he’s loitering in Geralt’s living room and being generally obnoxious around Chira. Geralt would shut down his brother’s awkward attempts at flirting if he thought Chireadan was genuinely uncomfortable, but he’s not sure. It’s also hilarious: Lambert hits on everything with a heartbeat with less finesse than a ten-year-old (with a ten-year-old’s pick up lines), and Chira is in a long-term, committed and very chaste relationship with the idea of Yennifer noticing him one day. Needlessly to say, the whole household has a pool going on how it will end (in tears?) and when.

The thought of his brother has him pacing the room, towards the closet. He might not find the answers he wants tonight, but some answers must be hidden in his drawers and shoe boxes and usb-drives. He blocks out the smell of the barbecue from his nostrils and tears out his childhood belongings from their nest.

Shoe box after shoe box with trinkets and keepsakes. There’s diplomas and a couple of tiny ballerina trophies from when he competed in dancing – for some reason Vesemir got the idea into his head that both Lambert and Geralt would benefit from ballet classes. After the fifth class Lambert dramatically knelt in front of Vesemir and declared that he would commit hara-kiri with his rapier if he was forced to go to a sixth one. The shoes were a bitch to his toes—this Lambert didn’t reveal to the audience in the living room. Geralt kept practicing and proved Vesemir right in his prediction that the ballet training would improve Geralt’s close-combat skills way beyond his brothers’.

Behind the stack of shoe boxes is a long, bulky bag, shorter than a case to store ski equipment in, longer than a traditional duffel bag.

He hauls it out and unzips it to reveal its forgotten content: Swords. Rapiers. Knives. He sorts through them, methodically determines their function and origin. He thinks he recognizes all of them—they feel familiar in his hands—but he doesn’t remember using them. He ghosts his finger along the longsword, mumbling the ancient inscription under his breath.

Under the ballet trophies he finds the first usb-drive, containing photo albums from the early years. He brings his laptop down to the floor and makes himself comfortable.

There’s snake-eyed, dirt-streaked children in the pictures, and Geralt doesn’t need to browse for long before Renfri shows up, hanging with her arm over Vesemir’s shoulder as they both smile towards the camera. Renfri stands out from the Kaer Morhen line-up of usual suspects with her undamaged eyes and aura of unchallenged confidence. Renfri was a good older sibling. No, a _great_ older sibling, unprecedented. When Eskel told him to turn the other cheek when the kids at school were dicks, Renfri taught him how to make them lick the floor (Geralt couldn’t remember how his lanky prepubescent self made them do that).

She had been his constant advocate, and now she’s just reduced to bones in the earth; a creak in a table and a sunny laughter echoing from one of those carefree summer days that only exists in jpeg. As he browses thorough the years and the albums, watching her grow up alongside Eskel, Lambert and himself, his memory increasingly fails to fill in the gaps between the milestones and candids instead of the other way around. He skips to the year of her death and there’s nothing in his brain to associate with the few pictures that remains: No memories, nothing but a rising, pitch black dread. The sun has set outside, leaving him in a cold circle of artificial light from the small screen. He feels the prickling sensation of not being alone in the room; that’s someone is standing in the corner, laughing as he fumbles with the teared shreds of his past. 

The bedroom door opens and closes a while later. A plate is strategically placed down on the floor where he’s sitting. His phone has seven unanswered calls to Lambert, three to Eskel and even one call going to Yenn’s voice mail (in desperate times). His laptop balances on his legs as he writes different versions of _eighteen year old woman killed_ in the search engine. His eyes _bleed_ , but he’s too vexed to care. The clock in the bottom corner of the screen suggest he’s been cooped up here for several hours. He’s reached zero progress and is in no shape to drive. He ignores the plate—food is for people who aren’t paralyzed by their own circle of shame and indecision.

“Fine. I’ll feed you if I must.” Jaskier plops down beside him, sighs and holds the plate under Geralt’s nose. Geralt’s stomach does an embarrassing grumbling noise. He reluctantly closes the computer, and lets Jaskier place the plate with assorted grilled vegetables on the metallic surface. The fork rattles down to Geralt’s groin. Jaskier mumbles a ‘woops’ and cracks open a bag of cheese snacks.

He holds the bag out, ”Cheese noodles?”

”You’re acclimating too fast,” Geralt says. “It’s suspicious.” He declines the snack.

Jaskier peers around the room while Geralt picks up the fork with a resigned sigh and begins to pick at his food. He’s secretly pleased that Jaskier keeps him company, until Jaskier yawns and Geralt realizes he wants access to the bed.

Jaskier licks the snack residue from his fingers and pinches the frayed threads of a bracelet, lifting it carefully from the pile of discarded keepsakes poured over the floor. “Pretty…” he comments, and twists it through two of his fingers. The bracelet is red and blue yarn precariously braided together, made by a kid’s clumsy hands.

“Lambert had a knitting period when he was twelve,” Geralt says, relieved that Jaskier didn’t go for the bag full with weapons. “There was a lot of macramé, and everyone received gifts. He’ll lie and say he was six if you ask him about it.” 

Lambert was a crafty kid. Geralt was a hoarder. He accepted those physical tokens of affection, told Lambert he let the goats eat them and stored them for safe-keeping in his little box under a lose floorboard. Even at that age he knew love was a fleeting occurrence, there for a short while in his life, gone inexorably.

“It’s priceless,” Jaskier praises. “Should I show Chira what his uncouth suitor can do with his hands?”

Geralt gives him a look of surprise, not having considered that Jaskier had picked up on the bad flirting situation. “I’ll let you keep it if you do it in front of Lambert.”

“Deal.” But Jaskier places the delicate bracelet on top of a knitted hat with lopsided ears, aware of its true value. 

There’s a long pause.

“So. What are we looking for?”

Geralt considers. This will be easier if he re-imagines Jaskier as someone neutral, someone to bounce ideas off. End goal: no discernable difference between talking to Jaskier and talking to the lamp on the nightstand. He doesn’t want to befriend furniture, so Jaskier is the only semi-sane option. He opens his mouth and the words comes out, strung together in the most far-fetched explanation Geralt has ever uttered out loud—the late hour helps to loosen his self-censoring. Jaskier tilts his head back on the bed their both leaning against and listens intently, nodding occasionally to show that he’s making a mental note of what’s being said. Geralt appreciates that he remains respectfully silent until the end.

Geralt waits, half expecting Jaskier to rise to his feet with a ‘That’s it, you win, charade’s over!’ and march out of the front door. It would be a long walk home, if he was heade for that medieval castle that doesn’t exist.

“You’ve accused me of every lie under the sun,” Jaskier begins. “You implied I had damaged my head.”

Geralt nods. He’s not sure he’ll be able to apologize _and_ keep his status as a reasonably rational human being. On the other hand—Jaskier has got a point. 

“You’ve lost the memory of a specific event,” Jaskier continues, thinking out loud, “And you were blind to the runes on the shovel until I read them out loud to you. You refused to believe in monsters until one pecked you on the head. I say Witcher and you barely flinch.”

He raises his eyebrows at Geralt in the semi-darkness, signaling that he’s about to deliver the genius punchline —prepare to be awed. “I regret to be the one to tell you this, but the reason you’ve consistently been a dick to me seems so clear it’s practically self-explainable. Dear Geralt, you are under a spell, and have been for quite some time.”

Geralt gives him a flat look. “I’m not—“

“ _You are under a spell,”_ Jaskier repeats, looking him sternly in the eye. He taps his finger twice against Geralt’s forehead, booping his nose while he’s in the vicinity. “It erected a wall in your memory; keeps things hidden—on your orders, or someone else’s.”

The connection Jaskier makes between Geralt’s memory lapse and magic (what the fuck?) has Geralt’s stomach swoop. He might be asleep right now. Talking to Jaskier, sitting shoulder to shoulder in the middle of the night, it wouldn’t surprise him if he was having a very vivid dream.

Still, there’s the glaring amnesia to address.

“Have you ever seen Memento? Don’t answer that,” he adds. This is stupid. It’s crazy, but he genuinely feels like someone is responsible for erasing Renfri’s faith from his memory, _someone did this_ and all he has now is clues written on post-its. Jaskier’s theory is far-fetched and crazy, but he’s also sleep-deprived.

He leaves his place on the floor and grabs a large dotted notebook from his backpack. “I need to make a list of what I don’t know and what I don’t… know I know. Before.” He shrugs and writes down _runes_ and _invisible Marshal_. After some hesitation he reluctantly writes _unable to call dad_ and _duffel bag. All_ this unfortunately favors the magic theory, alternatively he’s a Russian plant.

He should make a timeline of all the important dates he should be able to remember. When he found Marshal the first time. When he moved in under Regis roof. He needs to backtrack his life until he finds the blanks—and then he’ll try his best to fill them in. Jaskier’s magic tricks can’t permeate his life this thoroughly. He’ll make himself remember, and then we’ll see whose under a spell.

Jaskier picks up a random pencil from the floor and looks up at him, chin protruding proudly as if accepting a noble quest. “ _Finally_ , we’re on the same page—literally.”

Geralt looks at him, really _looks_ at him from a place that’s not restricted by… laws of reality. His new advocate, with the broad grin and the clueless fashion sense. The real Jaskier hasn’t been allowed to exist yet; his golden doublet hangs in the closet and his fancy beret lies trampled on campus property. What Geralt glimpsed that day on the lawn, _that_ was priceless. He wants to see what Jaskier is capable of when he’s in his right element. Geralt looks down at the page and writes _Jaskier._


End file.
